I write poems like loaves of bread.
Ordinary words, a bit of mind.
They rise.
Everyday poems.
Not meant for Kings and Queens
or cast in bronze,
certainly not twelve baskets leftover
after five thousand have eaten.
With a little butter, I’m satisfied.
You bring a bottle and we’ll make a meal of it.
Tomorrow I’ll try with different words.
These poems are not everything.
And they’re not nothing.
I make them from scratch.
Fresh. Good flavor.
This one’s finished.
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