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poem a day

Posted Apr 07 2010 12:00am
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(c) Mary ElizaBeth Peters, April 2010

He liked to hold hands,
sing loud,
drink much.

He hated invasions of privacy.

He disliked loud laughs,
large cars,
long baths.

Extravagance, he thought, was over-rated.

He preferred the cool breeze,
a good nap,
a true friend.

He loved to watch snow falling slowly.

He was usually polite,
unless screaming,
or crying.

He readily shared his opinions.

He wants you to know
that he thinks this is silly.
It is ridiculous, he believes,
to make a poem of him.
It is ridiculous, he believes,
to write an animal poem.

I tell him this poem is not him at all,
how ridiculous, how absurd, I tell him.
I tell him this poem is a poem about
a woman writing a poem about
a woman writing a poem about
her cat.

He is easily pleased,
sleeps deeply,
wakes calmly,
young and
spirited
again.
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