.
.
It isn’t a beauty.
It’s never been cherished.
It breathes out of duty.
Somehow hasn’t perished.
.
No poem will come.
I’ve nothing to keep.
I’m sitting here dumb.
And jonesing for sleep.
.
I’ve long drained my cup.
I’m ready to go –
but I can’t give up
till it stops nodding no.
.
Can’t it speak? Say yes!
Whether it can or it can’t,
I had to confess,
I wanted to give it a plant.
.
So I did.
“I’m sorry it isn’t a crocus.”
It spoke! “But we’re rid
of the need for a focus.”
.
“At last, I can write!”
I sighed.
“Don’t make it trite,”
it replied.
.
..
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