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Posted on Sep 17, 2016 in Poems


There, in the corner, staring at his list
two pints long – an industrial tan.
Padding – a pillow, an eking of slightness
beard upon beard – myth upon man.

Yet, no prosaic approaches for him
nor drunken sitting on knees, no pleas
for a new Mrs: he’s left alone
to sup and tick, a regular guy/myth.

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