Mild Annoyance

This afternoon, after completing the final stanza of a self portrait poem, just now I realize, a major portion of the plot echoes an older piece I wrote ten or more years ago. A plagiarism of self. Lifting of the past. Leaving me now frustrated and without a plot device to support the actions in the resulting stanzas.

Perhaps the motivation can transcend from the two characters sneaking off to slug whiskey shots, something other than smoking clove cigarettes.
The past looms up in the dark of the backyard, howling at the kitchen door, drunk in the wilderness.
131/ He shuffles an empty shot glass between his hands— left to right, then back again— right to left. Minutes passing, back and forth. Repeating actions. Over and over.


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