right hand pointing



  Jon Ballard

The Wars of Repetition

“You’re confused,” she says. But I’m not
And I know I’m not. “You’re a thief,”
I say, sure I gave her a twenty and not
A ten. Her grin chides: prove it. I turn
To the woman behind me in line, but those
Blue bystander eyes just shut me down.

Sometimes the sour world and the crumpled
Soul converge, and sometimes it happens
In a party store when you’re trying to buy
A soda and a paper, the headlines of
Which inform you that seven wars rage
Concurrently. “Get the manager,” I say.





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