Phantom Itch

In forced laughter

a noticeable weight

my knees, buckle

my belt, stretches

my shoes, sopped in sweat

my biceps, twitch

my mouth, crushes to crease into a mimic-fashion resembling a smile.

I question every answer,

or rather, would they question me?

I can frame my view

in a comic frame or two

depicting text of an easily gotten joke matched over a still face of an actor, someone important.

And i got this itch

i can’t scratch

on a limb that’s not mine

a phantom, stretching

a picking up of scraps of a memory I claim to think I don’t understand.

Oh, what a time to be alive.

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