Listen to poem:
A chink started it
One tipple too far,
barely enough to notice
made the first tile sound—
morning lost its clean edges
as choices became fuzzy.
The path did not break,
it merely curved a little
toward softer ground—
resolve missed a few heartbeats
dominoes fell step by step.
By dusk the tale unfolded,
not a great calamity—
a trail of slip-ups
from loose threads left ungathered
that slowly unstitched the day.
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