Like Jack
She sits
in the corner
like little jack did,
but she eats poetry instead,
it's the only taste she knows
They don't understand
this language
they call her own
but the poets will
if they unfold these words
of tightfisted paper balls
that scatter the corner
like crumbs
Yet she sits
in the corner alone
hoarding her words
in silence
and she eats all the poetry
so no one knows
except the poet inside
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