Spare Change

I don’t see why you even bother,   she wrote;
it’s not even poetry   —   addled prose
is all it is.          always the same three themes:
every ‘poem’ a fractured rhapsody
of love and booze and its resulting blues,
heartache and heartbreak consequence of both   .  .  .
might as well just scrap your blog and burn your
poetic license altogether now.

at the park by the river,     thirty yards
down from a man playing frisbee with his son,
I stand before a wishing well,     toss in
all my coins,    and pause to compose my wish.
sign says the change goes to charity;     I
smile into irony’s eyes and go home to blog.


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