Monday, May 30, 2016


The poem arrives first
So defined it's shadow
Could be weighed on a scale.
It’s an important poem,
Or thinks it is.
It fidgets, shoots long cuffs,
Looks at its gold watch,
Shrugs and lights a cigarette.
The poet slowly coheres
From the bluish smoke;
The glance he gives
Is not a friendly one.

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