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Morning, Afternoon
Evening, and Night
As well as his mortal friends
All come to visit his bedroom
Where else would they go?
His bedroom has become
The nexus of his existence
As if all the world's trains
Switched through one single hub
All made a layover here
His world once stretched out from
Munich to Tokyo
Baseball to skiing
And masters of chess to artistic poetry
Now he comes downstairs so rarely
To eat, to drink, and take pills
And wonders how long he's going to live
It's a half-life at best
But better than death...
He supposes...
Then he goes upstairs again
Day after day he writes
Poetry here as though
There were not enough
Days left to write his mind
A brown box of ashes
Lays next to his bed-side
The remains of a
Little black dog
And though he has no picture
Of his late, loving wife
Those he sees in his mind
Are much better
And when the darkness before dawn
Seeps through his window
And into his room
Her spirit curls up in his heart
And...
Takes root
And...
reminds him why he is living
And...
Writing a new poem
And...
Thinking of her
He begins his poem with...
"My worlds the biggest".........
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