Inventory of the Human Condition
The ledger reads:
a plethora of umbrellas—
though it hasn’t rained in weeks.
Six bowls of ripe fruit rotting simultaneously,
four calendars all agreeing to be ignored.
Noise catalogued:
dogs barking at metaphors,
telephones dreaming of purpose,
the surplus of answers
none of us asked for.
On the opposite shelf:
a paucity of receipts for kindness,
one cracked mirror,
a prayer half-mouthed then abandoned.
They say memory is selective—
but it always chooses the same omissions.
In audit we trust:
to weigh the overgrown
against the almost-forgotten.
And if balance exists,
it does so behind glass,
marked “for display only.”
Copyright © Mickey Grubb | Year Posted 2025
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