three feet behind my grin I speak
so seems my teeth is down for it
but it’s a make-do I do.
I DM P. L. Dunbar on some
whatchu mean “we?” no—
really, though. the rough metric
opening this a lie to make
done the otherwise I say I is.
yet, the we I been subtweets
me—“whatchu mean ‘I?’”—
answer’s off my tongue, so:
authentic, no? where “fine,” “OK,”
“yes” get forged? I split my difference
between here and gone,
a distance of hard words
hissed; presence of the harms’
numb climb: I’m fine, I’m fine.
Copyright © 2025 by Douglas Kearney. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 10, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
