For poetry month, I’m writing a poem a day. I can’t promise anything about the quality. Here’s my first one.

“Time travel is not possible”
Steve said, while the secondhand
on his wrist
tisk-tisked and proved that
cans rust,
or at the very least
buds do not stay
curled masses.
But, in fact, they open up
like Bob at the AA meeting.
But Steve is being profound.
You can tell by the way
he swirls his solo cup as if
it were punctuation.
If he sloshes enough
beer onto his hand
it will freeze, no one will move
and he will be correct.
“We would know already”
He has some example about
Persian rugs and calculators.
At this point I skip to
where Steve has left, and I pick up
his crumb-ridden Hors d’oeuvre plate.
It makes a satisfying
“schunk” in the garbage bag.

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