the literary life
is cast in bronze
on the sidewalks
of our great city
for the dead
the living sweat it out
feet to the pavement
scrapping day by day
with albatross dreams
and stolen lunches
then stumble
on the crutches
of park strolls
breathing in
life’s poetry
before spilling it
imperfectly (always)
back on the pilfered page
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