Thursday, February 18, 2016


Picture unwritten poems as a hopeful, shabby lot,
Extras in La Boheme, with eyes keenly focused
On the health of the stars playing Rodolfo or Mimi
Late at night, over coarse wine,
They discuss who might write them into being
"Szymborska? I heard she was dead. Besides,
I don't look good in Polish. There's a Scottish girl
Who might do, but I think she's a bit young for me;
Or then there's always that blog fellow.
His muse tells me he's desperate."

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