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poet halfheartedly looking through the poetry section
comes across a slim work by billy collins
poet laureate
reading a few of the poems an old feeling of excitement
springs up & certain amount of dread shame
of his own work
he realizes a raft of flimsy "on his way back to home
wouldn't you know a damned red light
and white clouds" line after line
as he thought billy collins billy collins
turning into the drive like the book he didn't intentionally buy
but the work totally owns him
.
when he's inside he sits down and tries to write a poem
it is like trying to construct what he was
or what he saw when it happened
but it is vanity so he thinks about billy collins
and of the book and how he might not be able to write
but everything is fine
he had been magically knocked off
and he can' quite do anything except a kind of
hurt joyful hopping
-----
To Billy Collins
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