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08
Jun

POEM: Archeologist

ARCHEOLOGIST

Two,
and the tick tock of the whisk
strewing the rolled mounds,
swinging about shards of bisque.

Dead,
eyeless (Spiders will avoid
threads thrust through the dust)
sockets, clean. Bulbs bleached devoid,

white
skulls smooth as marble, concrete.
Night digs on. Alone
with these monuments, I sweep.

Club
in hand, this Neanderthal
chum crumbled base heads
as once I kissed the baseball.

Young,
before my bones got tired
(flung against clockwork),
before my gut, I fired

lines,
but now sink, old in my chair,
pine, bury cracked thumbs
in chips, lap beers, feet in air,

ball
games run on television,
fall games. Dimly, my
wife, archeologist, on

chairs
and tables, dusts gingerly,
caring not to taint
stale artifacts. Gravenly,

as
janitor, I wipe cold skulls,
as she polishes
baseball trophies, bony hulls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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