I contemplate the alphabet—

and return to kindergarten days
of green felt marker streaks
on my peanut butter paws.

The alphabet.

Raw goods
carried my way on a train
puffing along, make way to unload
make way to manufacture,
make way to export!

I rub my eyes with my fists
and remember that
in many ways,
I, too, am an alphabet;

a house of unformed humanity
waiting to be cast and folded
a train load of raw goods
preparing for meaning.


The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem and creates meaning. Here is my mine:

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