The past is hunting me.
Blooms in my old room
like a snail.
It leaves cum smears
on the mattress.
Feasts on fallen
lint from my navel.
Redecorates and makes use
of every stained corner.
It follows me to work
like a ratted dog.
Plops itself at my
desk and answers
the phone. Lapps
at the ear piece
and gobbles the wax
I left behind. Digests
slow allowing for time
to become familiar.
Its presence here makes
me uneasy. The gilded horses
in my stomach prance
up and down up
and down (an E ticket
ride) as the slide
show in my head
introduces the next freak.
The music they play here
is frightening.
Poem and photo copyright Robert P. Langdon
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