Allergy dreams of monied hours taxed precious
on the field of paper reams,
ink sweetened with my soul's molasses
ode to shaken glasses, speared olives, smooth vodka
and kisses on the porch of summer's afternoons.
Muscles aching with life,
disuse and the tough tension of creation.
Words await a home,
blank pages caressed into feeling alive.
With tunneled pain words become
less reliable as the writing comes out quicker
and discomfort blots thought out.
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