absent like a boy playing hooky
with matches and a can of kerosene
it takes me moments to panic
am I that comfortable?
what if my anger is lost?
will I ever write a poem again?
will even a storm coming in over the hills
whip something up in me
send me racing for paper and a pen that smokes
to etch the words that tumble through my arm
into some kind of order on the page?
in my panic, I slam my fist into the wall
ah! there it is! waiting for me in a new place
so yes, I will still have poems
and so will you
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