by Shawn Misener
Searching for fingernail clippers
and chewing gum
the lost poet weaves across this
empty sidewalk in the dawn's piss
thinking aloud to the streetlamps
and the weeds pushing through
the cracks, “writing is no good,
it's like I'm scratching my arm
when in fact it's my ass that itches”
He makes his way up a cement hill
scouring his pockets for change
and realizing he has enough for coffee,
which most definitely will do for now
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