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Eviction Day


After curbing what hasn’t sold 
I sit across the street and spy on people 
taking what this morning was mine. 
A woman and her son struggle 
my dresser into a van. A metalhead 
straps my mattress to his roof, caution 
tape curlicuing as he revs away. 
I feel like a director watching 
the set of my play get broken 
down before the curtain ever opened. 
Nobody wants my orchid, my dog- 
eared books. A middleschooler 
picks up my Nirvana shirt, sniffs 
the pits, measures it against his chest. 
I close my eyes as he decides.



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