When It Comes
I can never write a poem
when I am told to write a poem.
It comes randomly like
Alley cats in my window whining for tuna
Waves that wash ashore cigarette butts and dead squid
Excited virgin boys who promise their performance will be better next time
Jot that down.
It leaves abruptly like
those midday summer rains and the only thing that is left is
a rainbow.
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