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Portrait of Myself in First Marriage

My underarms are rashed.
The kind of accident where
the seatbelts do more injury
than the crash.

Blood on my neck.
I wave a waitress away,
"Honestly, it's okay
I cut myself in the men's room,

My handwriting is
an imitation of my dad's
when I write a fake plate number
and phone on a prescription pad.

I'd just wanted to go to the Steakhouse
and eat fried appetizers alone.
I pull out into the strip mall night,
all the neon, comatose.

I come home, she's been reading
the page on my typewriter.
That's how she knows I'm a liar.
I can't argue, I tell her I'm sleeping off a concussion.

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