i limp home from a day.
a day,
alright.
no harder than
the one before,
no different, but
one that will be erased
by the next
one, and then
the next.
a wash of white
a streak of blue across
the canvas
of life.
i drop my hands into
the warm
water,
a bar of soap.
i stand at the kitchen sink,
looking out
the window.
some won't come off,
and i'll sleep
with it
this night.
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