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Oatmeal Poem

Make oatmeal, not poems
On the mornings words freeze
Or move as slow sludge deep
Inside a region we don’t
Discuss, someplace you can’t
Reach into and stir.
Unlike oatmeal
Which will wait forever.
Stirred easily, heated,
It transforms.
Add pecans, some blueberries,
A dash of cinnamon
As changed, as built from
Very little, as delicious as
A poem.

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