Troublesome
I love to write poetry,
but beginning it is always troublesome;
as though the poetry bouncer is leery of letting me
into the poetry club.
Try and start;
bus passes partial blue;
leaves, trees, green;
yellow dress floats by;
chicken smells
slide through the air
leaving a rumble in my stomach.
Seeing me juggle words,
the bouncer lets me in.
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