the poet competes -
words are sport
of an individual kind
accolades and
applause shave
our insecurities
like seconds off
the clock
a ribbon of response
proof that our words
are not unremarkable
we grow flabby -
cigarette in hand,
drink on the desk
with melting ice -
making rings mother
wouldn't approve of
we exercise the one
gray matter muscle,
hunched over the broken
"f" key on the keyboard,
the sticky, clicking, echoing
typewriter that doesn't always work
our ink-stained fingers,
clutch crumpled napkins,
stuff torn notebooks
into backpacks, purses -
piles on the floor
all that paper a
steady diet for the
silverfish who live
like us; stuck between
two sheets of paper,
disintegrating when pressed
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