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I carry an empty spool in my left front pocket
to remind me of loose ends
that I never want tied up
and sometimes I ponder on the irony
of having it in these jeans
that I’ve chosen not to hem
but rather to walk off the excess length
with the denim strings that tickle my ankles
that are all but braided
save a straggler that I pop off random
and weave among my fingers
to kill the afternoon
until the sun finally gives in,
setting brazenly reluctant
on the inferno horizon,
as seven small imprints dig deep in my palm,
a raised daisy in the hand
that I use to wipe the dust out of my eyes
from roads that I walk day after day,
with the Levi-eating asphalt
that splits toes and calluses the blisters
yet, keeps me at a distance
from all the nooses that dangle,
perilously close to my Achilles heel
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