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The plumb line
Sari Krosinsky
Isaiah’s sitting bald
outside the coffee shop,
smoke trailing
from his nostrils.
America took him to fuck
with the enemy’s head.
He took America, too,
with some extra in each paycheck
after air assault and psyops school,
but I’m only here ‘cause it’s better
than being Jewish in Poland.
We’ve met here the past year,
me with my coffee, Isaiah
with that weird name tea—
the one with a lot of caffeine
and the flavor of mulch.
We met over psychology and IQs,
and this maybe last time I see him
he tells me about the exponential
birthrate of stupid people.
He says smart people need
to start breeding. I don’t say
I like stupid people.
Each Krosinsky came alone.
I’ve seen Grampa Paul’s
brother’s family twice,
once at my mother’s funeral,
once at my father’s wedding.
I’m only here ‘cause two Krosinskys |
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