On bad nights I make three brown-bag lunches.
At the bottom of each bag rests a saltine I crushed in my hand.

I sing an ear worm out into the open.
I fear it laid eggs while in my head.

I feel funny addressing the dead out loud.
An odd sharing from an unmeasurable distance.

My body feels as if it must support itself
three millimeters above the ground.

My ear hears the earth sing back to me
a new variation of celestial motion.

It is odd how the weight of living
causes the sensation of the body rising from the ground.

In the morning I will choose a brown bag to take to work.
I always choose the one on the left side of the refrigerator.

copyright © 2023 Kenneth P. Gurney

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