Cardboard Dreams

My cardboard dream has
been slashed by the hideous
boxcutter in the corner,
the one with the flesh handle.

Why do I describe my enemy
when you are blind as the
sweet pink Saturday?
It is the white Sunday who sees,
and he says nothing,
sends refrigerated love.

My enemy rents a room in
my house, unevictable
though he even looks as though
his name should be going, going, gone.
He pays me in paint chips left
on a palette I cannot control.
It is lead paint to go with my
old hats,
but the textures and colors
are gorgeous nonetheless.

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