It’s working all of us, and all the time. Not just
as obvious obsessions with diagnostic names,
the car-horn ones you notice corralling someone else
as you avert your eyes. Don’t be coy. Punding
hums to you and me. Collect. Arrange. My mother
took up figurines, blaming the Depression for her want.
Myself, I go by color, size, or function for my stuff.
The superego interrupts: “In this implicit way,
are you not sorting people with a glance?”
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