When you see me, what do you see?
The chair? The wheels? The crumpled spine?
You want to know, I can see that . . .
How long . . ? How much . . ? Does it . . ? How do you . . ?
It’s just too trite, too mundane,
Your response is tedious. I can’t be bothered
To engage with your ignorance
And explain myself to you.
Mind your own business.
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