Shackled
By Walter Burns
The thief was known for his extr’ord’nary tastes- he’d pilfer my words but leave an old vase. No use for a car, computer, or wallet-- what was he thinking…that he could sell it? The thing he did do, I would say is so kind: he’d use it all up and return it in time. So clichéd or not, mistaken, forgot, tenderly used, quickly brushed off- the wondrous gift of my beautiful rhyme. Each time I forgave him, his innocent crime. One day, I assume, they caught that cut purse. He never came back to steal my “good verse:” Nothing but slave songs from cotton field rhymes, For my poems’ been tied down, a mighty long time Written February 24th, 2002 © on Feb 23 2002 03:13 PM PST 0 • 10
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"The thief was known for his extr’ord’nary tastes- ..."