I planned a documentary about your regrets

but the interview subjects besieged me

until I found a culvert with an apathetic dog.

Glum five hour talks left me Scotch-thirsty.

The brass spittoons were irrelevant and

the fictional sheriffs bothered me less

than the obtuse pantaloons.

Somewhere a forensic submarine

made an expedition into a foreign malcontent’s

residue of Francophilia.

It was just like watching a cardboard crepe

sink into the empty tub, analyzing your

claustrophobic row of decisions.

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