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I'm too wise to rehash the fleeting snapshots of this morning,
too wise to keep my room door ajar as I used to when Veronique spent the week;
she had the loudest purr I ever heard, leading her double lives, smooth and warm like the sweet fenugreek drink made by my mother.
I'm too wise to anatomize loss,
Of people and things and how I might discern which is which.
I'm too wise to shun the closeted hedonists and future benchwarmers,
Who, like anyone else, had their own losses.
I'm wise enough to ride my own inside jokes as though
they were created by the worst comedian I know or the funniest of them all.
Wise enough I am to rehash the bits of sanity I will be keeping in the coming hours, to
smile at the infinite opportunities of building a poem.