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Today I poke around your throat and laugh at jokes you steal. At night I search for the remote,

 

amid the couch, our home’s trench coat, I pat and scrounge, reveal. Today I choke around your throat

 

a scarf I found inside my tote. (Bones, they squeak, then heal.) At night I search and feel remote,

 

the more I know, the less I vote and turn my steering wheel. Today you spoke around my throat,

 

hid words I had, hid my gloat. (Our pillows kiss and squeal.) That fight and search for our remote

 

may have sucked my last grace note. Cross-leggéd, lost checks, loose meals, some okay coke inside my throat, It’s white! (I lurch for our remote.)