drops--that will not pierce
the skin--pelt the flesh
like pennies against the
wall--a coin toss, the
rolling of bones, all in
life a chance, the
chancers standing on the
corner with their matchbook
manifestos, eyes snapping
like a leather belt around
the ears.
this too
shall pass
shall pass
and all will be light
again, the unnerving glory
of a spring day encapsulated
in a single pill, to be
taken with a glass of
milk
we are good children (or
were, once-upon-a-time)
when we still believed
in happily-ever-after
keeping company with the
kith and kin of the forest,
those familiar gnomish elves
who practice good magic
and reward the
simple and deserving, answering
thick riddles with
common courtesy
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