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the other day
seated in his office
I asked my stubborn, mean-looking
bushy-eyebrows editor
if he’d consider two books:
“Short Stories for Real Short People”
and “Truly Tall Tales for Tall People”

and he sat back with that air
(actually, made you think he wanted to release air)
and he said:
“You’ll get shot for titles like that…
'Short Stories for Real Short People'
will directly offend people
who are vertically challenged
And the same people would shoot you
for excluding them by implication
in the epithet 'Tall' –
They’ll sure shoot you for that…
They’re both just politically incorrect”


And I leaned forward
(releasing air myself –
anything he can do, I can do better!)
and I said:
“Sure, it’s not politically correct – but it sure
ain’t psychologically correct, given our times,
to speak of shooting while we are in an office”


I hear the Editor no longer works there
and is now in some publishing house
who are specialists  in books on Accounting
and Engineering
where he knows, for sure, I’m never likely to go
Remedy my melody,
It's broken,
Out of tune,
Off tempo.

Wake me up,
I'm sleeping,
Catatonic,
Don't see me.

Entertain me,
Satisfy me,
Deny me,
My love.

Don't trust
My Lust.
I needed to write. Hope this is okay. From the top of my mind.
I held her in my gaze on the iron rail of summer noon.

This moment of humid silence wetting her heat burn cheeks

I knew would melt pretty soon.

Like moisture droplets on her lips and her palm’s sweat

This heavenly moment would retreat

With its phantoms of fancy it’s never too late!

Then sobered and in saner head

We would find our place under the banyan’s cool shade.
Crossing Tower Bridge
I time travel, past many
Thames borne broken hearts
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