And They Call It Pictionary

Corsages not corsets. Shawls
over the Venus

de Milo. Motel
not hotel. Architect over

poet. Defect without
sheepdogs or

a diaspora.
A clock,

a kite, or a barn. One
last busy signal

before the station
wagon rolls over another

gravel road off
the map. No one shouts

“caryatid”—even
when hitchhikers with 2x4s

return, mumbling,
“It’s just a game.”

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