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Here you will find the writings of the poet Theodore Waterfield


Mary is cleaning out
the medicine cabinet.
There are expired dates
on all the pain relievers.
How is this so?
Was there no pain in our lives
this past year?
Did it explode flowers
every morning?
Was there always laughter
breaking the dishes?
Surely, a tear in the sink!
A bed of rocks,
dreams breaking our hearts.

We did not use them,
so there was only happiness!
Or the baby oil our daughter left.
How old does oil become?
From millions of bones and leaves
heaped together for millions of years.
This is only a few hours old, still good.
And little bars of soap
from suitcases,
gathering like a pile of stones.
How did they get here?
Who threw them in our bags?
So many gremlins.
Invisible spirits playing tricks.
Out it goes!
And so on.

I suppose a good deal can be known
about people from these excavations.
Look how much we are told
from a piece of pottery.
A broken rib.
Some ancient charcoal,
and amidst it all, baby powder,
in a bowl so ancient
the world was utterly new.
Or, I shudder in thinking,
being born,
God was up to his elbows in diapers,
and put it in the jar
for future use.

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