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The crust of wasted semen on the carpet

full of dust and weeks of dryness

and particles of toilet paper, wasted,

scrapes against the bottom of my foot.

A tuft of old carpet, unvacuumed, stiff and upright

with a coating of wasted sperm no longer squirming

hopefully towards an egg.

Frozen there and dead and motionless.

Once so slimy, sticky, sweet and optimistic;

then sopped up and dropped into the toilet, and flushed

into the sewer,

or smeared across the carpet carelessly

(What care I for the thrashings of potential life, my child?)

and left to petrify on the filthy carpet.

Crusted and forgotten; futile thrashings forgotten.

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