There was a line of ants marching through the kitchen,
toward my last peach. I thought about snatching it up
and calling the exterminator,
but I couldn’t.
The drier buzzed during my afternoon nap.
Who set the alarm anyway?
Maybe it was the hot pink sweater
that left a neon calling card in the lint basket.
The photos in my album are starting
to fade—the edges separating
image from paper.
They are the only copies.
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