A blade of grass

limp and tired

stranded on a dry

summer's day

awaits

a-long-time-coming

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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