Dyspraxia by C.B. Anderson

I never learned to play the ukulele
or strum along with mariachi bands
I scrape beneath my fingernails twice daily,
but somehow still can't seem to get my hands

clean. Very likely, this condition is
congenital. The doctor says that I
will die one day, which isn't good for busi-
ness; if the paramedics start to cry,

it's best to leave the building. What a waste
of brains it is that every single thought
I have involves desire: I sin in haste,
but don't repent until I'm sure they've caught

me. Feet are custom-made to fit a shoe,
though this does not imply I'm bound to fill
the ones I'm given. Everything I do
is prone to ridicule. There's time to kill,

and through it all I struggle with a load
of dirty laundry, fumbling for some quarters
to feed the damned machine. Long nights erode
my willingness to follow doctors' orders.

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