This is also for

writing shitty, third-string poetry. boldly dubbing it ‘poetry’ anyway. then rhyming poetry with poetry in a so-called poem. knowing that we all have to start somewhere and this is your clean slate. the previous writer at the coffee shop gifted a warm window seat, the free Wi-Fi password, and a slightly weathered stick of chalk, neon pink. the freckles on our fingertips glow in the dark.

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This is for

the unpublished drafts

the phone notes

the changing of the font

and calling that a poem

the “for what it’s worth I’m sorry”

if sorry could be plural

for existing, maybe

for being there, sometimes

for not being there, enough

for showing up

and talking down

for myself

for others

for hitting “publish”

because your brain demands

at 11:33 pm Eastern Standard Time

that this is right

that this has to get out

that these prepositions

go against everything

that middle school grammar book said

when you read it obsessively

to prepare for a pop quiz

so you could always be the best

on paper, that is

 

but you don’t care

about those silly rules

anymore

 

Que será, será.