Denim
It took some time, but
eventually the denim
(after much scrubbing)
of my workaday soul
cleaned-up as if stone washed.
Valuable lessons
were tucked into new pockets,
the clucking hens
of a nagging conscience
were at last silenced.
I’m spinning myself dry today,
hanging up my smoking guns.
Her face still riddles me through,
but I patch up just fine,
and know now how to zip her
out of my mind.
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