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From time to time, in the midday caesura between work and work, I say to myself, Self, let’s write a lunch poem.* And we do, Me n’ the Self. And the Oddnivore always manages to nudge his way in, a slippery subtext.

4 year olds are very sneaky.

Sponge

Porous—
so grit gets trapped in that universe
of pink, yellow, blue. Garish
colors to remind us: you lurk in the sink water.
Don’t
throw me
out.

As if we could.

As if we could, physically—
let me remind you of the impossibility that you’d fit
into the drain.
            Son, you will not go out with the bathwater. You will not; you will not.

As if we could.
The necessity of a sponge,
cozy in the green frog by Grandma’s sink—
but yours was rougher than my mild rectangle.

Show me how this is done. I don’t want to waste this water.

 
*Lunch Poems are generally one draft, penned in 15-20 minutes between bites of leftovers.
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