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scanning the
poetry books
on the shelf,
he comes across
a thin billy
collins collection.
the dog eared
pages had
become unfolded,
begging to be
re-examined.

now, he sits
in the quiet room
on a friday night,
glasses on,
the gentle garden,
a series of haphazard
plants he keeps alive
soaking up the moonlight
just beyond the glass
on the porch,
wondering how
the fuck collins
always sticks
the landings.