opus

by Steven J. Serafiani

I grow silver roots in
my italian coiffe- the
sunlight only accentuates my
retirement.          be not me to
tell one mental
break
    down from
another.

Good grief. Where’s my fucking
watch?

I don’t want to return to
where I grew up but I keep
coming back, like a
playwright to his
shitty
    opus.

and the universe pines, no, spins for
me. I

am opus.

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