the plastic poem holder on Poetry Rock
has been kicked hard spun around
and split down the side it still holds
to the rock by its single screw but the
black lid lies guttered corner missing
hinged snapped
I straighten the box replace the cover
and notice a paper on the ground
a life of their own today’s poem about
poems as children and living through
the challenges of their birth and departure
ending with the last stanza
the odd and offbeat she misses the most
I’ve little doubt there is the culprit
just turning the corner at the end of the street
laughing hysterically to himself
and me now angry enough to wish
I’d finished that poem differently
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