EGGS: 'Clean Sheets'

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Hey.
There's no gentleness
To your frustration.

It's just unrealistic
To ever expect
Some kind of
Weathered mercy
From your homely face
In the doorway
At the Golden Hour.

Dog,
Its like a throttled
Sort of manic ambition.

I struggle to find
A calm place
On your face
That glows
With maternal authority
Magistrating a Tent City
Of the heart.

Lord,
I am so tired
Of being so tired.

There's a fake place
That people must make
For each other to bask
In the Golden Hour
Where your socks are clean
And The Replacements play
As you slow-dance with the sick and old.

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