While billionaires create electric apples,
poets sip on cheap rye
(the same brand Al Purdy preferred),
and the lines seem to flow
like a perfect pour cracking ice,
but some always ends up on the floor,
letting slurred words buzz
loud as a black fly, trapped
by a picture window
on one of those summer days,
when glasses are big enough
to drown the royalty check that never arrived,
only to breathe life into them
so it all becomes a metaphor for determination
instead of another defeat.
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