I bring travel tweezers downstairs from his bathroom to return

to my wallet’s zippered coin purse for emergency rear view mirror
tweezing. I never know when my eyebrows will sprout black secrets.

I stop to check my email first, read an inbox poem about white horizons,

follow a link through Roethke on cliches, to one about a mother who can’t stay,
or even say, enough already, quiet please, I’ve nothing to do with nonsense poetry.

I notice my left hand, silver tweezers still half pinched, poised to pluck.


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