Words Randomly Culled from the Yellowed Pages of a Nine-Year-Old Journal

My triple-digit
hissy fit,
a relic of generational pride.

Basking in your sculpture garden,
the sequence
of perpendicular tensions
plays out.

Fennel bulbs and laundry
do not justify
your tactile pleasure treks.

Bright lights on iron,
shadows trapped in stone:
the cleansing effects
of your interjected missiles.

Conflicts misunderstood.

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