Sunday, January 24, 2016


From my collection Time Warp:

To the Poet's ascerbic 
wit I gave my sour look,
our astringent discourse
a jawbreaker, spoiled.

When he said of my 
extremities You don't 
dance like a girl,
I floundered, clogging.

Now I stumble, you kiss
my long Texas digits,
prehensile foreparts,
and I toe out, a hoofer.  


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