Brain-dump

Stand on a street corner
A sign around my neck
“Would you like to read my poetry?”
Seeking instant gratification,
Without wifi connection.

(I wrote most of it while gazing
In deep contemplation
Of my possibly expanding midriff.)

Excuse me while I rehearse
14 lines of free verse
About my vintage Converse
Written on the obverse
Of a battered clutch-purse.

(I could be a hipster too
Except I shaved my beard off
Because it bothered me.)

Appreciation hungry,
I push my latest verbal hairball
Under your nose
Wonder whether its worth it
To see you so repulsed.

(Writing is therapy,
It doesn’t need to be read
But editing might be a beneficial)

Wordsworth never had these problems,
But then if he lived today
He’d be too busy
Taking pictures of daffodils
On his smartphone
To write poetry.

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