In the morning
he goes online,
reads two meditations
and the poems of the day.
About half way through
the poems, written
by the best and brightest
of the twentieth
not to mention the
twenty-first century
(which might be a
bit premature
given that we are
only fifteen
years into it),
he has an irresistible
urge to write
a poem not
unlike what
he just read
and then read out loud
to his wife,
and so he does
for practice at
writing poetry and
then he posts it
usually without
unless he actually
uses some
quotable words
which he
religiously would
put in parentheses
and then he thinks
to himself
that almost
everything needs
parentheses —
maybe everything
does. Perhaps
life is but a
phrase or at
the very least
deserving of
an asterisk.

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