Song of the Humming Drumlins

I got to get, to get, to get—no
to return the ice cubes I found
in my pocket to the freezer.

Time passes: closets, mirrors,
laundry, arguments, secret
hiding places. Bottom line:
there’s not enough room here.

When I finally make it
to the ocean
I realize:
1) my toes have been too close
    to the edge of the pier, and
2) my aunt Marilyn isn’t really ignoring
    my growing list of accomplishments,
        she’s dead. About ten years now.

Dead and ignoring you are kind

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