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He’s a pint sized charmer in flat topped fedora

Humphrey Bogart’s 3 year old impersonator

Why else would I let someone’s fingers

Rove my face while speaking sweet nothings in my ear

When one tiny pointer landed on my enormous zit

The one I’ve been suffering with since Christmas

Which started as a painful pulling to the left of my upper lip

Has become this monster destined for the pages of Guinness

I can’t help but ask, “What am I doing here?”

I came expecting to receive instruction, attitude correction, priority realignment

but instead I find myself sitting in a chair I might break,

coloring a pathetic rendering of a child’s sneaker

Trying to discern how the shoe image related to

the verse written on its toes and how I could make

the 5 squirmers buy into the connection through my

 repetition amidst the distraction of their creative processes

I’m barefoot because I insisted on wearing my platform wedges

as I raise my foot to illustrate the point of the shoe

and the total sum response of that illustration was “Ew”

And how do I control the urge to snap “Don’t touch that!”

He’s just a little boy and its just a dime sized pimple

It’s only a 35 minute departure from my typical Sunday night

And I don’t really mind any of it I just become tired

with all the readjusting of expectations, of secrets,

which are not mine to share, and sacrifices I wish I had

the money to make. When things are larger than I seem

there’s little left to be done but color within the lines and

stack my blocks again so that little feet can kick them down

Because squeezing out the bacterial ooze doesn’t guarantee

the zits and whiteheads will leave or prevent a scaring

just as ugly and grotesque as the dime sized bump before

And who knows; I may find my own flat topped fedora

or a sneaker which actually fits.

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