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It’s the kind of night where you don’t sleep.

It’s the kind of night where you make hot tea, maybe.

It’s the kind of night where you listen to your favorite records.

It’s the kind of night where you run your fingers along the spines of all your books.

            That one I read on an airplane.

            That one I read by the riverside.

            That one I read in bed.

            That one I read in one sitting.

But even if you go out on the porch and smoke a whole pack,

Even if you throw on some gym clothes and go for a drive,

Even if you turn the dial on your car radio,

It won’t stop being that kind of night.

Take your fingers off the keys.

You’ll never come up with a convincing rhyme scheme,

That will burrow into the soul of some kid twenty-eight years down the line,

And give him dreams of grandeur,

And delusions of genius.

 

2 December 2013

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