boxcar willy

i have found
i can start a poem
about one of them
&
end the same
poem
on notes of an
other
i have found
i can start crying
over one of them
&
then forget
which one
i am crying
about
maybe
that long
train of men
is just the same damn
boxcar
going past
going past
going past
while i stand
stuck
at the
crossroad.

this has happened a lot as i have let go of the notion that seymour was any different than dusty.
now i get them confused.
i feel the same sense of loss…the same frustration…the same sense of abandonment…the same anger towards the both of them.
i have noticed patterns in the men i end up with. but now i am beginning to suspect it is just the same guy, going out the door, putting on a hat & fake mustache, and coming back in.
or–at least–that’s what it feels like.

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