poem 3, spring 2022

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The air is busy with ebullient chats

Teas swirl with the latest milk,

Musings trickle their way to my ears,

Which sag down my bright green silk

I am treated to the energy of many

Engulfed by the lacking of one

A distant hum barricades my head

I stare at the wood grain table, as glum

As the waitress who tends to me,

But worse, for her shift will cease

She’ll collapse into a lover’s glee

Tonight, while my version, swallowing pleas

Wisps and echoes are the milk

In my fading tea, they snake about

Insidiously; they know my ilk

The weary and always wicked minds

Who’ve fought a dozen medium battles

A million tiny and one large, dullness winds

Itself around my core and yanks the attles

Even deeper, down and down until

I scurry about the bottom bits,

As mobile as I’ve ever been,

And gleeful as the rubbish hits.

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