What’s it like

to be perfect-Ly,

perfectly tall,

perfect—Ly, in?

Bearing pickets pointed, wounding,

your greeting bitter medicine

up my nostrils


To you a child, head patted.

Shall I bark?

Drums are wasps buzzing

from the racket of your dogging.

I was once human, like you;

more than a plague.

Now down here with the flies;

junk mail.

Dear Perfect—Ly, one wish:

Let perfection plan your demise.

Fran Hinkle




Author's Notes/Comments: 

=Once again, I wrote this about my landlord, whom I have this obsession with; it's just that when the walls come down, and one's been hurt by a comment one's made about someone else that's very demeaning, one really gets to see just how that person is, and lives.  Too bad that it still doesn't take the obsession away.

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