That Terrible Rasping Sound
One grows used to sundry annoyances: gas-
Powered leaf blowers, mufflerless cars,
People at work who believe, without reason,
That one cares at all about with whom they
Live. One must, in the end, become callous,
A duck, letting all of these affronts roll off
Of one's back, and I have. I'm a mallard.
I paddle past everything, almost, but there
Is one toxin my feathers can't block:
My grand-daughter crying all night.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck

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Written on 2022-06-18 at 03:35




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