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Poetry
Pitter-Patter
Paul Weinman
In that obnoxious
6-legged gait
the ants of my life
keep their continual walk
of my body, my skin's nakedness.
I've stopped slapping
at their ebonyness
their gawky-legged trotting.
My crushing of their chiton
only brings more to snip
to snap at my scaly skin . . .
the lies, deceits, ignoble manners.
I have no idea to whom
each of those convictions go.
Or why.
I suffer this disdaining
diffidence, detraction.
Silently
seek a cerebral masturbation.
A righting of myself.
You smile . . .
spit to the side.
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