Shine on, you stuttering genius,
(panhandler). I see you gather ideas,
belongings; stop as soon as you believe
you’re out of shelves. Watching your,
hands, eyes, I place them
elsewhere:
on your chest, legs, toes.
Maybe if you misplaced, replaced
your self away from comfortable laps
I’d find you realized. Potential
lies
within those fingers I watch playing
among poker chips. I should scream
until your eardrums explode; the predict-
able result will assure me you
still
ache higher than the rest. I stop myself
remembering my actions won’t help me,
either. Selfishness must arrest; your
nature tending to overcome such
impatience.
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