Kevin McLellan
POETICS
 

Apparition Street

A response to Mary Ruefle’s collection Apparition Hill


We — I spend too much time by myself so when I say “we”
I mean the both of us — lost our youthful face to a scowl, and this is not a result of forgetting to take out the trash — rotting hot dog, corn cobs and husks, cigarette butts and drafts of an illegitimate poem — trash that is picked-up only on Thursdays. As we were saying, our densely populated street has no lawns — no place for trashcans — and on Wednesday we forgot to take out the trash because we were occupied with wasting time; and this was long before we had thought to forgive.


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