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Nobody’s Bureau 

Lucas Jorgensen | Poetry

after Emily Dickinson

The Blame Machine  is on the fritz  again.  Thankfully, nobody’s  to blame.  Sure took a long time to
figure out,  though—nobody’s dying from an abundance of praise.  The funeral’s  planned for  next
Friday. Nobody knows how to feel. Nobody looks death in its hard, white face and jabs it in the eye.
Nobody dies all the time.  It’s like a miracle.  Nobody’s not sure the crack in the door leaks heaven’s
light.  Take every nobody,  huddled all together, and, accounting for rounding,  you’ve gathered the
whole Ledger of Life. Nobody’s in it. Nobody’s even taking account.