the butter knife reaches into darker angles
its serrated edge scrapes the bottom
for those last sticky sweet reserves of will
to paste on as a smile
so I can say with convincing demeanor
it is well and it will stay well
This is a poem I wrote at a time when I practiced William Stafford's practice of writing a poem a day. I was going through those poems - most which were written and immediately forgotten. This one reflects how I feel now.
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