Friday, September 14, 2018

Legacy - quick poem




I had some thoughts pop into my head
the other day
outside a Starbucks in New Jersey,
and needed a place to
jot them all down.

Laptop-less, I found a stack of prepaid postcards in the door of my car,
leftovers from a summer of
political rantings.




Over a small “tall” iced coffee with almond milk
I wrote,
it occurring to me
disheartened, Now, I can put a value to
my words:

Thirty-five cents,
pen to paper.

Today, I spent the day with a firefighter who rushed the
burning buildings on 
9/11
the scars on his neck, nothing compared to
his buddies' who
fell.
Hasn’t slept a solid night in
seventeen
years.

What price, these things we carry 

(and, worse,
the things
we do 

not?)


What kind of legacy is an unread book
on some 
library shelf?

- gae 




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