It’s Up To You

I write poetry

like a goose might

take a shit.

So, what of it?


As the smiling cook at

the boy’s home said

as he took off the pot’s lid,

“Anyone can have a kid.

It’s simple, like making soup.

But it’s the stirring that counts.”


I write poetry

like a sick man

walking down the street

might spit.

So, what of it?

Nothing I can really do.

The real is up to you.

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