Did I pay for Christmas?
A child’s question
asked with innocence
yes, I answered
with every second,
every minute,
every day
of my solitary existence

A debt that has
no interest
but is paid
In thoughts
and memories
that crowd my mind
with haunting persistence

With poetry and prose
that furnish my living
with words like jagged rocks
made of letters
like discarded spikes
incisors to tear the flesh
without warning
or resistance

But these same words
these ideas
made in verse
and sentence
bring joy and laughter
and companions
who play and dance,
my friends, my life’s remittance©



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