In this small town
familiarity
of ourselves
there are no exclamation points
no question marks
only hard periods
slammed on blank pages
In this small town
we require certainty
a guaranteed conviction
of what is
Yet
what is left of what is
but the assurance of dotted i’s
the slow humped backs of m’d
or the parallel structure of each
between
in here and out there
Because we are neutral
ivory-colored paper
screaming the same stale text
of what is
in this small town
And sometimes what is is enough
And sometimes what is
dips into the fresh ink
of what isn’t
plugging the pages
with meta Is
and me
with what isn’t
enough
with what isn’t
so familiar