poetry by j matthew waters

burning down the house

inside that house
how many times must you
recall the images
whether real & precise
or simply metaphysical

sigmund would have been
intrigued to know more
especially how your
palms turn dry & gritty
fingertips like matchsticks

analog alarm clock
wakes you regimentally
every single day since
the sound evolving into
a talking heads classic

october two thousand twenty
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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