the press

falling somewhere between needing a winch or a ratchet
to get out of bed and hurl my thoughts to the ether
lining up the letters on the iron press
hands sticky and stained with ink

did Ben Franklin realize the eventual turn of publishing
would turn to posting inane chatter and horny thoughts
and silly pet pictures and pithy quotes
and where was I going with my hammer

what I really need is a shovel or a spade
to bury myself deep within you
and if hardware and tools aren’t sexy enough
next time I’ll try sugar and fairy dust

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