my book of poems was due
a month ago, maybe two
in truth, it’s already written
in honesty, it always has been
I just haven’t sent the damned thing in
they’ll package it up, build some hype
they’ll print, market, and sell my tripe
to loose-jowl, bespectacled bookstore types
people wearing corduroy trousers
with loose-knit, bumpy-frump sweaters
and to bearded coffeehouse beatniks
and squeaking, perky-tit college chicks
they’ll sell twenty copies to my mother
and with a bit of luck, a few dozen others
maybe it’ll sit on a coffee table
next to Hank’s greatest hits, and fables
uncreased spines, neatly aligned
neither writer’s poetry read, enshrined
so, instead, here it sits and waits
overdue, oh yes, terribly late–
tho sometimes told these words are gold
they’ve still managed to remain unsold

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I've come to write.

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