with the other unemployed
poets
at the park,
we talk about love
and death,
life
in general.
we are annoying people,
always
searching
for a metaphor to mix,
waiting for
something we see to
make a spark,
a reason
to take out a pen
and write.
we observe
without pause,
we're aloof and distant,
almost unreachable
as we mull
over words
said, or unsaid.
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