By G. Murray Thomas

The room reeked of stale poetry.
There was poetry spilled all over the carpet.
The kitchen counter was covered with aluminum canshalf full of warm poetry
with cigarette butts floating in it.
And my head achedwith that particular sharp pain
that only comes from worn out neurons
abused with too much imagined brilliance
inspired by an excessive consumption
of poetry..
So I sat down and– what else –
cracked open a cold poem.

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