Find joy in the little things:
the glint of rust on flagpoles at dawn,
or squeak of shoes on desecrated marble.
Imperfections I’d given up on.
How could I not?
Waking up, even my eyes were stiff.
I had been up late rummaging bulbs
to replace what’d gone dark within.
Reaching for the last shelf, my shoulder had
seized. Our history pooled thick in my mind,
a mud, a soreness no massage could clear.
What I should have done.
What wasn’t my fault but was mine to bear.
Each regret a leaf I let die,
piled on a floor in need of sweeping.
Find relief where you can, my friend:
though Epsom salt is no remedy for
what ails, we allow ourselves a hot bath
and feel, long enough, that it is.
On the occasion of the inauguration of the 46th President of the United States
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