At the Pleasure of the Poet

Since becoming a free-poem slanging loiterer at the farmer's market, my fingers have tango danced the typewriter dance floor to the tune of about 70 tunes, and besides the poems being free of charge and the verse being free, only a handful of discerning souls have let the marionette string reigns completely go, have asked me to tie my own laces and let my thought maraude like dancing soles in polished loafers, which double as a metaphor for my fingertips which are getting sore in a pain-as-pleasure-sort-of-way, but for fun, time has flown too close to the sun, and with it we fall to the page's bottom shimmering waves, so with dying breath this poem says: sayonara; have a nice day!