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Nicole Steinberg: Squick

February 5, 2015 by PBQ

The problem with shadows
is they all look like dogs.

Remember that time on Friends
when Phoebe rescues a cat

and claims it’s her dead mother
reincarnated? Ross takes the piss

’cause he’s a mean piece of shit.
The others guilt him into mumbled

apologies. An audience of 53 million
davens approval. Logic is a statement

necklace few can pull off. Truth is
a cocktail ring I left in a puddle

under a rickety barstool. My dad
says I lose everything but maybe

he’s wrong. I worry about my earlobes
splitting. I worry about not having sex.

It’s weird. Seriously, it’s weird, right?
If I had to drink one beer for the rest

of my life, I’d probably pick Corona,
so I’m gross. I’m out there, man,

petting lonely dogs. Most nights
I look around the room to see

what everyone else is feeling.
I live for a taste of the troubled

squirm. I eat around the mold.

Filed Under: Contributors 91, Issue 91, Poetry, Poetry 91 Tagged With: Contributors 91, Nicole Steinberg, Poetry, Poetry 91

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