He’s bored, broken and burning,

Hot with ill-defined yearning…

The computer dogs

Wherever he logs,

Losing  room for turning.

Keeps going back to a trough,

And wearily hears…”HANDS OFF…”

Stops when noticed

Ignoring  the closest

All live persons he puts off.

The plan–pull back and regroup–

Get his mind out of the soup…

His last poetry

Of the night, you’ll see,

He’s not an unthinking dupe.

–Jonathan Caswell

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