Keyhole Surgery by Patricia Walsh

Invasive in the least, a desired reckoning

transgendered allowance scalds my thighs

confusing the enemy, a silver matrimony

sinks suitors before they even arrive.


Complicated delights undo the best of us,

explanations sing over alcoholic joy

early morning questions call it a night

following necessities of reputation, adhered.


Each one is better than the last.

Whittling the pencil down to the stump

scouting for erasers, inexpensive

at most, on the mercy of the giver.


Periodic bollards did work, once.

Punctuating railings for our own safety.

The white decrepit house miraculously stays

come heaven or high tide, a desired building.


Elephant in the lobby.  Limestone plinths

remain, among hanging baskets, decorous.

Sweeping awards where none was intended,

resting on the street among the skater boys.


Deep as humans can be, I concede defeat.

Writing out of existence, boredom, stalled,

paid to fight the presence of indifference,

for whom it seems, the biro has failed.



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