Show Poem: July 17, 2016 Evansville, IN @ PG #poetry 

I was not born to be an archeologist
I use creams now to protect myself
Maybe a summer visor, sunglasses
Steak sandwich under each arm 

I am not always comfortable
In a world where bread is the enemy 

I want no more than what the richest man
Wants for the thing he loves the most 

A clean quiet corner
Where I can burn some gas.

Ripping off the cure
Like ripping off a band aid 

We are all born to be archeologists
Inspect the bottoms of our feet
Count the groove in our teeth

Our gift is that
We can stop at any time 

Dissecting the chicken nuggets
Listing things from best to worst 

Trying to decipher what the boys
Are saying on the other side of the glass 

Infinitely searching for another place
To be ourselves 

We can stop that for now
Stop and just listen 

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