i've not owned you
in two-thousand calendar squares
yet you haunt my iliac crest
my mind plays april fools in september
and i swear you're there
with change and keys, wrinkled receipts and purple lint
your battery is dead
you lie waste in a landfill
alive in my every day and my everyday
age is a ghost
a nomadic wanderer
hoarding memories along Eighty Year trail
guilt is a roommate
with laundry-and-circles-and-dishes
dwelling in a dwelling for things without end
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