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In Hebrew there is a saying

“a shared calamity is half a consolation”


One thinks of liver spots,

the incumbent administration


And those worn-only-once clothes

bought on an impetuous splurge

that don’t fit us any more


And how, when we inevitably

queue up to walk the plank

the water will be so chock full

of mothers in law, used car dealers,

prayer book thumpers, skeptics and unbelievers

each quoting some favorite cliché

about “the next world”


That we won’t be able to hear

the clatter of the mixer blades

blending us all into silent globes


Whirling, shimmering bubbles

of ova and spermatozoa

waiting to pop out, one-by-one

from some inexplicable lotto machine

where even three correct numbers

gets you a consolation prize

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© Johnmichael Simon



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