Wednesday, May 06, 2009



It was an honor

to have another day

driving up to his house

in its swanky car.

He felt privileged

to hold his cup

and sip the coffee.

It was a sign of distinction

that his toast had turned

the perfect shade of brown,

and that butter

was spread on its surface.

Writing this poem,

he felt fortunate

to find a word

just when he needed it,

shining like a prize.





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