Ploy-ground

You hear music.

You hear God.

You hear static.

I hear words.

They’re petulant.

They run through my mind’s

playground, throw gravel,

skip stones, scream rainbows.

They come before meaning.

They shackle me to the page,

wait expectantly for

mac and cheese,

throw their spoons at the wall

and splatter Jackson, M. C.,

Albert, e. e., T. S., and Walt

into oblivion.

While the women–

Syvlia, Ani, Ane, Kaki,

Yoko, Lætitia, and my mother

look on and whisper:

You know this.

You knew it

all along.

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