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If I had words
I’d write a poem by the lake
on a yellow chair
while a dog
in coat of black
and white ran circles
round me, wet and shook—
if only past tense of the verb
were shaked.
It’s not.

Rhyming can be faked
though like intelligence
and smiles, only for a while
until it stinks.

Pretending has its place.
I do a lot of it,
but for the moment
I shall neither feign nor think.

I am content to sit here
and be laked.

© Elaine Stirling, 2017

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