twenty seven
times i start
and stop, to write
this poem.
to mark the end
of a year,
the beginning
of a year.
it is hard
to type on a
blackberry
with long
thumbnails.
those are one
of the changes,
one
of the new goals
i set for myself:
maintain growth,
or progress,
even if it's
only as small
only as slow
as a thumbnail.
it's harder than
it seems, you know.
working in a warehouse
makes it hard to do
several things:
wear nice clothes
to work.
keep your nails
nice.
don't come home
covered
in cardboard.
i'm doing two
of the three,
and that's a good
average. anyway,
i refuse to pack
boxes in heels.
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