Lint. Sounds like a town in Holland or Belgium
or the site where a great treaty might be signed,
but it’s actually the source of acute embarrassment
when you reach for your wallet and pull out something
attached to it that looks dusty, old and gray, perhaps
a piece of would-be nest-building material for a robin,
discarded on second thought by that bird for its poor
properties in providing warmth for its baby birds.
Until then lint usually had an inconsequential, random
acquaintance with the tip of your finger at the bottom
of your pocket or a piece of roller tape that got rid of it
on your sweater or your cashmere jacket.
Now I’ve read in the small press the incredible story
that there was an international conference to protect lint,
to give it poacher protection, and it was being unfairly
maligned by puffed-up politicians seeking an issue.
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Gene Goldfarb lives in New York City, where he ponders, love, hate, mortality and what’s up with the guy who hangs around the building. He loves movies, books, travel, and international cuisine. His poetry has appeared in the small press including: Black Fox, The Daily Drunk, The Gorko Gazette, Rat’s Ass Review, Bullshit Lit, and Stoneboat.