Nine years, five years, twenty,

more/less… I can point to some mark

on my body or better, recall how

a particular phrase ruined/saved me.

But tonight is a lonely bucket,

with great angst staring at the floor

while a supermoon blazes

for someone else.

It’s pink. I’m blue.

A poet once asked, “How are you?”

I feel compelled to answer.

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