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In a State of Poverty

A blade of grass

limp and tired

stranded on a dry

summer's day



the very least 

a single drop of rain.

A poet--sitting on a curb--

plucks it from its roots and

then blindly tosses it aside

his soul famished.

From where he sits

watches his own hand

brush atop that same 

rough patch of grass,

all the while awaiting

a single verse, a syllable

rich in sound.

                 by Johnny M. Tucker, Jr

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