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Image for the poem Listen For The Canary

Listen For The Canary

I don't hear the canary. I just feel the box and a scratch from a tenpenny nail. "Is this how one is planted at a full moon?"  
   
In silence. Approaching eternal darkness in slumber from the side of death, my pillow I wept on. As if a conspiracy. "Where do I arrive? Does the aging process start all over? Am  I out of character and are my trousers too tight? Am I bloating and decaying like an old trout?"    
   
It all started the day after my big sister had a fantasy tea party. All the gangs from the neighborhood were there. My sister was forty years old, going on six. Mom had fixed pigs in a blanket, but they looked like fingers from her Tickle Me Elmo.    
   
Beneath the dining room table were her Sodom and Gomorrah.  My sister was canoodling with a box of animal crackers. Mom was up to her elbow with entrails stopping up the kitchen sink. She called Roto-Rooter but they were behind schedule.    
   
I was jealous and decided to take the drain-pipe exit. Leaving my Raggedy Andy shirt behind. I'm going to miss my big wheel bike. "I don't hear the canary."  
Written by adagio
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