My Flesh is Your Flesh Refined

Old man,
sitting in your chair
stuffed into your corner
sifting the cold whiskey
and colder ice
into your bearded face,
you are me

I see in your hands
the line that made me
and the line that forever
rest in yours,
curled around a
forgotten memory,
stagnated in a cool pond
and allowed to float.

It is in this spot, you and
I shall remain at odds,
housed under the same roof
that conjoined us.


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