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At my thousandth meeting, I sit nodding at platitudes:
Serenity, acceptance, love-- the simple life; all its virtues.
But a tall man distracts me, leaning hard against the back wall,
His face marbled red like raw meat and reeking of piss-stale malt.
I squirm between the sight of him, standing vacant and spent,
And the orator on stage-- my mentor, a sage and heaven-sent.
Hording my coins-- the awards I mistake as willed and hard-won--
I turn, with a kink in my grin, reach back and hand him one.
He hands it right back. His uncontrived smile and large liquid eyes
Reflect all of me, a pupil who needs it much more.
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