QUICKIE, SHORTY POEM

Quickie,
shorty,
speak-y easy. . .

whip some words up
to go with your post-noon
or evening cup,
cafe or tea-sy. . .

So to do,
I tap ten fingers,
and ten toes,
a little cold,
now warm at keys,
and in shoes,
which ground me here,
and let my words
reach far and soon,
and when, all told,
tally up
to half of forty.

Another year
and more,
by now I’ve seen,

and though I’d like to breach
that fearsome, foggy chasm,
I worry that it might be filled
with my each and every
past and future
dread phantasm,

But if I leap,
perhaps I’ll get clear
as clear blue sky
on exactly what
this
all can mean.

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