the poet admits to a history of malfeasance
A woman and a duck walk into a bar.
The bartender says, “Where’d you get the pig?”
The woman says, “That’s not a pig, it’s a duck.”
The bartender says, “I was talking to the duck.”
Is this funny, is this an aliquot part.
Forgive me gatekeeper for I have cringed; it is 40 years since my last confession; during that time, I winced at other people semi-automatically; hung onto resentments I concealed and carried; didn’t give a ghost; was too lazy to do comparison shopping; was late for my water bill; was late for my father’s funeral; laughed at the pig joke; had several free-floating infernal toad intervals; was petty; was cowardly; didn’t behave as if many problems should be considered trivial; in arguments large and small, cultivated a multitude of excuses and defenses, refused graciousness, refused toconcede I wasn’t right; in the same way, failed to take my medicine, failed at abnormality, didn’t suspect algorithms could be programmed white; disliked trigonometry; disliked queuing; minimized unknowns in the hunger equations; mocked at the undead, the half-dead, the retreating graylights; misfired at the heckler; blew away housework; hated folding; stole wildflowers; stole subtexts; stole sweetheart tokens; read the gun numbers on the wall; blew off the numbers, kept on going.
Free writing prompt: