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The Poem


"That's not a poem," they said,
Shaking their heads.
"It has no color, no heart.
No rhyme, no alliteration."
They took my words
Written on paper,
Thin from the rubber end
Of a No. 2 pencil,
And tore it to shreds.
Each word laboriously, lovingly
Rolled around my tongue.
Each phrase
Tasted, tried,
Played with in my mind,
Before swelling forth
A wave in a storm,
Crashing spectacularly onto wood pulp,
Splattering my soul like red paint
On white snow
For all the world to know.

"Now this," they beamed, these Esteemed.
"This is a poem!"
They held up a battered napkin,
Fallen from my purse,
Partial words chicken scratched
In permanent pink marker
Across it's beige face--
A blot of blue where I'd improvised,
Unknowingly, with a leaking ink pen.
"This is a work of art on a glorious
canvas!" they said, nodding their heads.
"Magnificent! Bravo!" they crowed,
(Those in the Know).
"That," I said, blushing red,
"Is my grocery list."
And left them pondering
My Magnificence
And my backside
As I floated from the room.




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