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Sonnet to Myself

I collect rubber bands, phone my sister
when I can, rinse and recycle sandwich bags,
keep the thermostat set at sixty-five.
I mouth the words of popular songs,
drum with my thumbs the hybrid's wheel.
My dreams are about lost teeth and exams.
I will not burst upon the scene or streak
across the sky. I will never wow or thrill.
I will not become a god or an angel.
When I was a boy, I lay down in the grass
and saw in the clouds not clowns or spittoons,
not dragons on the waves of an upside-down sea -
only this and this and this and this.
When gone, I will not be missed.

Owen McLeod
  The Moth is a beautiful creature. David Mitchell

No other magazine like it. Billy Collins

A rare literary gem. Dermot Healy

The Moth is an amazing magazine. Donal Ryan

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Ardan Grange
Co. Cavan 
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