If I was to uproot
all the soil
around Calgary
I would find:
All my old empty liquor bottles
my snubbed out cigarettes
receipts from ten thousand bad bar nights
old love notes to loves long gone,
and a couple of recommendations
for self books
that therapists suggested I read,
to help me
get out of bed.
The bones of a few rough years,
exposed for the crows and I.
Bones,
for the crows to peck at,
and for me to utilize for
reflective poems.
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