My last poem will be a humdinger, will include
a hummingbird in a ruby throated cowl
sipping satisfyingly in Caren’s Krutsinger’s
faerie garden - we’ll be sipping tea or something
stronger. Our muses are quite old by then,
and surely friends. One’s feigning on a daffodil.
The other’s wrinkling her teeny eyes - a scowl.
Instead of Chris Green’s good morning verse,
mine...
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