Poem #17
My poems have too many trees without leaves
Like I live in a suspended place
Where it’s always autumn,
Not completely dead but never in bloom.
These poems are too much
Like day after blizzard slush.
No longer a powdery snow
And the last thing to slake my thirst
Here’s a meal when you already ate.
Here’s a warm coat when the fire’s been lit.
My halfway love is an incomplete verse;
A dollar short and half a day too late.
12/3/20
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