I submitted
because I saw ‘defenestration’
in a WWII detective novel,
and had to look it up.
The same day I discovered
a journal of the same name,

so I sent the poems in, thinly clad,
barely edited, but mine.
That’s no joke,
but the timing – o timing
is a funny belt we loosen
as we age.

See, we see things, connect things,
think about things like donuts
and fish bait and carburetors
all in the same slide,
some weird PowerPoint
that misses the point,
yet we keep presenting,
opening the theme wider,
trying to explain why.

Tighten it up a bit.
We used to be
able to plan better,
things like outings and orgasms.
But now, we stop at sketchy minimarts,
frown suspiciously at the toilet
before taking that fifth leak,
and wonder if crabs on the seat
is a myth Momma told us
when she taught us to hover.

And orgasm, well, we won’t go there.
Big pharma has done it for us
(though if I were a man
with a four-hour erection,
I’d definitely take a selfie in the ER).
But alas, I digress, regress,
slip into the scatological and sexual
underworld of grey matter come undone.

That’s what happens after a while.
Don’t let anyone kid you.
You give in and let more of it out
when you’re older. Release. Fall,
out the window and otherwise. Boom.
Boy, that cuckoo clock is loud.


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