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a poem a day for a month

April 4, 2011

Can I do it?

For the past couple of days, I've been rewriting famous poems and trying to make them funny. Will this earn me bad kharma? Probably. But the idea of Sylvia Plath writing about Twitter makes me laugh.

Today, though, I'm branching out. Here's one I wrote about the kitchen table. It was not written by Allen Ginsberg first.

Kitchen table sticky with snail trails
of ice cream from hours ago
but I am too busy
or too lazy
to wipe them up.
Instead I sit at the table, wondering about it
The cracked formica and rusted chrome
the yellowing plastic chairs, the silver duct tape holding them together.
How old is this table, really?
Has it lived in Texas longer than I have?
Would it be offended if I had the chairs reupholstered
as I would be offended if someone suggested I have my own
seat repaired?
It deserves better than an owner who lets the ice cream drips
harden into tributaries of
sticky filth.
It deserves better that rusty rivets
or whatever those things are called that hold the chair backs together.
It deserves someone who knows the name of those things.
My table deserves better than me.
A statement that reflects poorly on my own self-respect
At this moment

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