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SUNDAY AT 49 DEGREES


The quiet, getting things done
Post New Year's Eve, another year gone
Now, I live right here alone
All this space is my home

Where there used to be a husband, kids, and the phone
Demanding my time, commanding my rhyme
A short 15 years ago flying day by day
Now that I'm 49, have Sundays my way

Compose poetry in these pages
Even if not written down
The meter rages
Around and 'round

On through me
Every time I have the time
To let this aching heart run free
With words that usually rhyme

A ball and chain would be no paper
Even worse, would be no pen
My incessant poems must I taper?
Shut my mouth to be your kin

I have my many faults
I'd rather hide today
Keep my mind in those steel vaults
As though my spirit passed away

A funeral would be good
The woman-child poet died
She now hides under her hood
The rhymes that poet's cry

Because she's too busy
Doting over just one man
Serving one until she's dizzy
Doing better things with this hand.

1/1/2006 1445 cj







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