a quiet night
nothing to complain about
no stab in the gut
no squeeze in the eye
the incense stick
turns silently to scent
the pillow set just right
in a moment your partner
slips in beside you
puts a hand on your thigh
but people are dying
in the hospital
not two miles away
others drink themselves to stupor
in shipwrecked rooms
contemplate long-deferred suicides
sleep alone
for the first time in decades.
When you're little
no one has to tell you
there's a difference
between cartoons and real-life
that you don't survive a steamroller
flattening you like a pancake
or a mouthful of dynamite
that you can't reconstitute
yourself from ashes
or become a thousand mini-yous
when passed through a shredder
but the older you get
the closer you get
to the zany technicolor truth
between life and cartoons
there's no difference at all.
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