meditation on selfishness

october when my computer’s ‘m’ key wears

out from writing about time, monsters, & my

mother. a real problem when i think about work

this coming monday, money for the repair, an in-

progress essay on monuments, half-finished emails

to friends back home making excuses for why i left

the country. as i smack command+v on the keyboard

every time i need an ‘m,’ i realize i’m always writing

about me. me. mostly me. at a parisian repair shop

i mistranslate ‘m key’ as ‘em clé’ like an em-moron

so monsieur corrects with a mouthy la touche ‘m’

du clavier & i respond exactement, monsieur, ‘le

clé em,’ doubling down on linguistic ignorance,

rearranging noun & adjective so they fall sloppy

from my gob, never landing on the apposite term.

as if the key to broken communication is proximity.

as if simple repetition is recognition. as if the right

phrasing can replace real talk & real listening to

the dude across from me, across screenscapes,

electro hellscapes with red dots enumerating the

friends & family i’ve been ignoring since i moved

continents. as if i don’t always ruin decent poems,

decent conversations, by always talking about

                                                             me.