Wednesday, March 29, 2017

FOR GROUCHO OR KARL MARX

Marooned
for life
at the DMV,

eagerly my captive
eye seeks
poetry. But—

murky dim
carpet
and graywhite

Formica
countertops
sullied

with a
few floozy
pen marks

being, apparently,
the opium 
of the imperialists

(and puritanically
weak coffee, the meth-
amphetamine)

it receives
no
good answers,

only—presently,
at the ends
of lines,

some fair-
ly pleasant
answering machines.

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