Is It Poetry
Having now just left the pub in the drivel rain
weaving in and out of flashing light's.
Six or seven pints is all men have.
And having what I've had the rest have had.
One hand rests over my blind eye the other does.
The motorcycle accident and that the window face.
Putting both in the back of my pick-up,
at the bottom of the quarry in November rain.
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