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by marci madary

I used to be a poet.

I am not sure anymore.

The part of me that lived in the land of metaphor and verse

has been invaded by straight lines and logical thought.

I did have a moment while traveling by air.

I looked down at a field of circles:

groupings of perfectly drawn wheels,

as if by a compass –

tawny brown, shiny green, and earth red.

Laying beneath puffs of precipitation.

I felt the nudge to take out a scrap of paper,

to see what would come out of my pen.

But a list of to-do’s choked

the possibility.

I opened my laptop

and shut the shade.


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