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the poet
I found my friend the poet sitting at the cafe
I smiled and asked him how he was.
"I am not sure how I am. But I am here."
We sipped our coffee and I knew he was deep in thought. So I asked what he was working on.
He laughed at this and replied, "I am still thinking about your first question. But to answer I am writing a poem."
He read me his poem. I did not understand it. But I was, all the same, moved
"I love your poems. I wish I could write like that." I said.
"you can." he half smiled.
"How?"
His face grimaced and turned pale and he choked down an answer.
He looked me in my own liquid eye; his overfilled beyond their brim.
And he struggled weakly but spoke:
"Weeping."
I smiled and asked him how he was.
"I am not sure how I am. But I am here."
We sipped our coffee and I knew he was deep in thought. So I asked what he was working on.
He laughed at this and replied, "I am still thinking about your first question. But to answer I am writing a poem."
He read me his poem. I did not understand it. But I was, all the same, moved
"I love your poems. I wish I could write like that." I said.
"you can." he half smiled.
"How?"
His face grimaced and turned pale and he choked down an answer.
He looked me in my own liquid eye; his overfilled beyond their brim.
And he struggled weakly but spoke:
"Weeping."
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