Pressing Matters
First, the smell.
It’s trash and old blood—
Then, another smell.
It’s snow and gasoline—
Next, a different smell.
It’s hot paper and ink.
I wish it were hot food and drink.
Last, the sound—
“One, two, three—like a bird out of scene.”
The smell, the sound, the scene—
Chicago Times—
You are a bitter memory.
I think of you at the copy machine
while I make 50K,
while you make—millions?
I think I need therapy
when hot paper fills the air,
and 2 AM is waking me
to the haunting song—
"Down to My Last Dollar."
Submitted: February 25, 2025
© Copyright 2025 Betty Caprelli. All rights reserved.
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