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Rob MacDonald



Today is the day we march

for nothing

but not walking.


To work, we march

with lite lunches

in brown bags.


To 7-11, we march

with midnight

in our minds.


To the cliff, we march

to throw our blockheads

upon the rocks.


To the futon,

the temple,

the animal hospital,


to the tailor for alterations,

the plastic surgeon for suggestions,

the dancehall to learn


to march,

to get it right

this time.







Mr. Symmetry likes robin’s eggs and Coke cans,

not yuletide decorations or glossy magazines.


Mr. Symmetry likes carbon-14 and coffee filters,

not nursery rhymes or grocery store clerks.


Mr. Symmetry only eats manicotti and waffle cones,

never lamb chops or crushed red pepper.


If, on the way to work, you see Mr. Symmetry

walking in the rain, pull to the curb and whistle.


If you sit down, on a park bench, let’s say,

with Mr. Symmetry, he will take your hand in his.


If Mr. Symmetry asks you about your bad dream,

tell him you can’t even remember your own name.


(Mr. Symmetry, of course, has read Freud, loves

his spectacular face, those repressed lenses.)


Don’t bother listening when Mr. Symmetry

tells you your life is half over—he’s half-baked.


Mr. Symmetry won’t tell you he’s sorry, but he’ll

leave a saucer of milk on your doorstep one night.


The sounds of his footsteps on the gravel drive

will be written on a chalkboard two hundred times.


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