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John Latta
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Finicky Idiot

Somnolent or retrograde, that’s how the day is.
Like it’s not all there, or not out there at all.
It’s in here, with mandibles

Made of steel, mouthing loud
Quizzical and finicky expressions—
C’est très Kafkaesque!

In here in the ice-blue Batcave where idiotic
Snatches of language can be overheard
And the icicles keep up

An ornery masquerade called ‘dripping.’
I suppose they think it ‘sexy.’
I meant to say ‘silly.’

How about this: a man’s head is filling
Only one gallon of a ten-gallon hat.
I’m from deep down in Texas and feeling

A little ‘daft.’
I meant to say ‘draft.’
Like my head: its filling of only one gallon of.

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