poetry critical

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Ceramic Bowls

He maxed out his credit cards, packed his bag full with broken ceramic bowls and boarded a bullet train that was headed away from sunset.
On the train, he declared that twitter was his new best friend. Both of them began gossiping about a girl that was giving them weird stares for trying to do a donut selfie. They wondered what her job was, how many lovers she has had and if she was good at crochet. She looked like someone that would be good at crochet. Her fingers were long, slender and nimble at picking out green M&M’s from a pack. Maybe she can teach him how to untangle an argument about unwashed dishes. Cut them down to fit exactly a hundred and forty characters.
When the sunset had long gone, he disembarked at a graveyard. Something about the graveyard’s atmosphere reminded him of home. Like how its ravel trail was not crooked enough. Like how its moss was not green enough. And how its shadow was not clear enough. He stops by a tombstone of some he has never met. The salt in his tears stings his ceramic cut hands. The tombstone reads, “A devoted wife, a mover of two and a great cook. Died at 30. Buried at 60.”
The green snail regrets
Not eating the maple leaves –
Gut was left hungry

11 Feb 15

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