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Nate Pritts

 

 

POEM


Looking up into spiny clumps of pine
against this broad shingle of midmorning
          blue               so those fists
                     might as well be clouds
in some preposterous new sky.

Some days
          I am sharp enough to write one line of poetry

to connect the overblown sounds
          of a word like preposterous
to imposter               by making an insightful associate

but today I'm a fake with limp brain,
         old geezer sitting on my friend's front porch
in Cincinnati.           A dying animal waiting

to be gathered into the artifice of eternity!
Each pole on this street has a grey metal box
                     (people pass by!)
        containing enough juice
                         to fry a thousand squirrels
so why put it right there where I can see it,

why show me if you're not going to let me have it?

 

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Nate Pritts responds to art, economics, and Country Music not paying him for his poems.