by Craig Scott
I am an old man reading his
newspaper.
I am a surgeon with broken
hands.
I am your son shouting hate
at an aslant pencil.
I am notes about nothing written
on scraps of dirty paper.
I am the lights going out.
I am the hungry mongrel dog in the
street.
I am the lonely air waiting to
be breathed.
I am to blame.
I’m sorry.
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