The FAB&PP Poem of the Month for April 2024

so he thought
a poem might
come out of
this particular funk

like the predicted snow
might fall as cold rain

like his legs
would carry him to
the bus without

as if the critics
(and the premise)
wouldn't matter and the
objects would penetrate his
eyes and brain

but none of that

       so time
was not killed but

and he still
ended up
for lunch

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