I think; therefore, I am
A pencil in my hand,
pressed between my fingers
and thumb. I feel it there
as I scratch across the paper
and pause to listen to
the words that seem to come
from somewhere both me
and not me, and the pine desk
is solid, and my shoulder
solidly aches and has, I think,
for days. For Heaven’s sake,
I think, of course this is real,
but maybe I am mistaken.
Who knows what to make
of this red and worn sweatshirt,
the shadow the desk lamp creates,
my cold hands, the hum-um
of the washing machine and fan
in the room I assume is still there?
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