I dont want to look back at what Ive done
like a man hunched over an expired Sears catalog,
or a lepidopterist pinning conquests to a corkboard.
Id rather let my accomplishments run
not like watercolors off a tilted page,
but more like a cat on a cinder block wall,
a thing free to roam the world,
a miniature menace now meowing
at your door, dragging its diggings in with it.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 35 | Winter 2012