This Post No Longer Has Legs…so I’m going to walk away.

Often noted, poemin’ for me is a jones. A hard habit. A trick, a trait, a bent, a craving, a monkey on one’s back. Now suddenly the lyrical lick is like beer in my twenties, scotch in my thirties, vino in my forth decade and now, like a good bourbon; a pour of poesy has come down to…I can take it or leave it.

I’m done. The doggerel has lost its bite and I feel no need to bark about that lark yonder. Maybe the muse has been used to exhaustion. Word and world weary, simply wishing to monosyllable the WOW of this when, my muse refuses to tic tock any ad hoc metrical monologue with my collective puns are all done, and I’m in deep debt…do dues… to the God of interior rhymes, and those high times of beer and wine and scotch whiskey.

The drinks …up.

The Cubs were on the radio, game tied in the fifth. Shiloh lay in late afternoon shade, steadily working a bone. There was a lake breeze, cool and constant. Maybe that’s what excited a squadron of butterflies to strafe me as I sat reading.

Then again, I believe the gods of Old Spice, straight whiskey, and short skirts were so displeased, as to conspire and jointly order those lepidopteron sorties, for I was reading poetry, and, shame of shames, poetry by women.

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