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Thursday
Feb232017

hung by the bed

though it is as familiar as my autumn coat,
like a sandbag on a weakened hook,
pulling screws out of the wall,
hung by the bed or by the door
ignored but always breathing there
in the coldest corner of the room
like a burned out bulb I never change
dark and present with every switch
always waiting for a break
i know it better than my hands
or the family photos on my phone
deceptive comfort lying there
forced to cede another day
and take the space where clothes should lay
if misery is not a coat
nor a scarf or winter sleigh
why do I hang it on this rack
and leave it there to stay?

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