It’s not fair. You owe it to the reader. We’re trying to help. We have an uncle with a disability and he always says exactly what it is. Take it from him. Take it from us. Take it from them. You can’t expect people to read you if you don’t come out and say it. Everyone knows the default mode of a poem is
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Evangelize Your Love
At home, a sixteen-year-old son and window treatments and walls to paint and “How was your day?” On the web there are no days and no seasons and no oil changes for the Subaru. “No one important.” At the motel, flat pillows, a lamp tall as his son in the corner and a print of a sailboat. “In year three, the sex fizzled and we broke up. Then we got married.” Have you gotten yourself into something? “Tonight I am making your favorite dish.” News comes on, news goes off, taxes. “At some point, he stopped kissing me on the neck.” She needs to write her Goals Statement. “He promised.” More or less. “How can I live like this?” the three of them in unison.