Her fingers land on the pads
of keys; she’s bouncing on the inside
polishing the past, crafting a life
of living into the whole world…
mind-slammin words, her struggle
with being there, here, doing that,
then and where – it’s a sport,
jammin poets rampaging, staging
bets waging war on ears bent
towards them. This fifty-something
charges the air, muses racing,
poets fishing, phishing nets,
wielding clubs – darlings diving
for cover, but there is no cover on this pool.


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