I think you’re like a calculator 

’cause you like things so neat,

rounded up at the end

for a summation

total to your parts

but you’re not a computer;

you’re a a mountain road

with a caution sign,

winding yourself up to worry on the edge. 

I think you may fall off sometimes but it’s really an avalanche

that does you in. 

You’ve got to forgive yourself for pretending to be a career criminal

when six months is all you put in

and you walked away a locksmith. 

(All the doors are unlocked.)

You used to fear

a marooned island travel

but that’s what you’ve got yourself here,

just a boat you built

and some water

and some might say

it’s not so bad once you see

the sun. 

Your future is

a flushed-cheek smile,

a warm embrace from behind,

the smell of salt seas,

a lock you can pick,

a broken calculator in a still ocean

thrown over the edge

once you realized

everything was already there. 


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