Hour 11

The old car sits in the front

It rusts, matching the yellow

Surely meant to be

Never mind a new car

Or new paint

The old car sits in the front

Where it should always be

It’s an anchor point

As is the old kettle at the diner

The one no one moves

Easier to fix it but why fix it

The old kettle sits in the front

And the servers just move around it

Just like the street sweepers

Anchor points

And that tree

That lives in the middle of the bedroom

Of me

The one I hadn’t been tending?

An anchor point which is living

Not an obstacle or recyclable resource

Just, anchoring

So I can trade in the car and buy a new kettle

Without feeling

A sudden and sever loss of the sentimental

The sentimental, always a lousy form of anchoring

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