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poetry by j matthew waters

nineteen ninety-nine


they were small samples
but they were perfect
neat & tidy & filed away
in the cooler

this place is so secure
maybe not like fort knox
or maybe even more

even if I gave you
my (pass)word
or my barcode
the window to my soul
my first born or my last breath
you’d struggle
to get past the gate

as if in a flashback
we find ourselves
hanging out in the cooler
passing around bits & pieces
subconsciously agreeing
how nineteen ninety-nine
was a killer year




june two thousand twenty-one
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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