National Poetry Month, Day 18

somewhere on the crayon farm
the ghosts of all discarded, unfinished
seventy-two kits turn upside down
and clack against the plastic guards
in a waxy melody of adjectives.
the red and blue japanese robot
I’m pretty sure I got at the swap meet
(i just remembered that I used
to go to these fairly often as a kid)
links to a memory of a comic book
with the devil stabbing a voodoo
superman while the real one gasped.
i wore all these things out years ago,
but only one of them winked at me
today from across the cyberscape.

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