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  • Michael T. Smith



E’ry time I type up a poem

Of moored and sandy thoughts

My fingers dance on loan

And renegades they be,

type a peculiar word—”teh”

From where is this word

Of homeward thoughts?

to free said convicts

from out their prison stick.

Is a sign of my aging years

of arthritic fingers stumbling

in the Ben Hur of typists,

whose Roman numerals are bloated.

Or is it born of the unconscious—

in that loom of the mind,

where weaves an Arachne able,

entangling thoughts in their way.

Is it something to be deciphered—

a code (like most of poetry)

to bury in a “t” the crossword

title, beyond letters hyetal?

Might it be some slang,

written on a slant,

to boorish hours

of morning all alone.

Yet in this monstrosity

something touches my soul—

not only the words we teach,

but even “teh” bloated things

we mispronounce.

—Michael T. Smith


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