The Complaint Department is Now Open

I have nothing to wear,
said the soul, rummaging
through drawers full of socks—

I would like to have
a word with the night,
said the eye’s dark iris—

I have pockets full of seeds,
said the bitter melon that I sliced
into half-circles on the chopping board—

And I repeat everything you say,
said the northern mockingbird to the row
of machines churning in the laundromat—


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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