No one, except another poet
could keep on knocking,
soliciting you with verse
Ringing at odd hours
and asking, “If possible,
fix me a sandwich…”
Gobbling up intimate
moments forming characters
rumbling out their minds
Wanting to be pulled into
the raw hit of heart demands
Going on, going back
Never intent on selling or
completed ‘cyclopedics. Searching
for needed additional lines…
We are lonely restless
carpetbaggers, with gaunt eyes
hard hands, clutching yellow pages
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