i saw the poet picking yesterday’s crumbs
his only possession, the typed manuscript
and dwelling in a solitary habitation
with no one peeping through his window
he’s that lonely hill, far from other hills
and songs of praise never arrive at foot;
he has withstood snowstorms and rains
his only staple food and strong drink
he dumps piles of papers at his door
nay! rejection notes, with more jeering
harder than real rocks they throw at
to cover alive after washing with his tears
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