So I use the generic, begrudgingly. If you think you’re immune to advertising that’s only proof it’s working. Think about cereal. My history of delusional thinking dates back to strawberry flavoring. Now I’m in a field of wildflowers. QR codes don’t exist. We’re all learning how to be American by watching other Americans. Our new neighbors planted just enough six-foot shrubs to block their view of the shed in our backyard. Something somewhere is burning. Not counting the Sun. Birthdays are dropping off of my calendar. I only notice when things seem too quiet. I’m all out of carrots and I’m all out of sticks. Coins are disappearing, too. This makes some people sad but when I find pennies around the house I drop them into the trash and make one final wish. I wish my wife and I had spare time we didn’t need to spend on fixing ourselves. I want to go on and on and on. Then I want to stop.
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Jeffrey Hermann’s poetry and prose has appeared in Passages North, Heavy Feather, HAD, trampset, and other publications. Though less publicized, he finds his work as a father and husband to be rewarding beyond measure.