Now, having peed,
mate, this Papermate™ pen,
and I still as the creek
ponder rushing inspiration.
Now unnecessary
to merely glance girlward
at the one roughly 
except of course for reference.

First saw her painted
in golden, no, bronze light
angelic- perfectly picturesque
on a rock by the creek with a book

like I am seeking
her, now, reading this
poem long since typed,
or sitting bladder-emptied
upon pastoral stones and the
black bird soars softly down,
the black man ssssnaps his
metal can open—and she reads—
or espeically when I regard
her ponytail's backside, strut past
upriver, seeking inspiration
despite all the people
seeking inspiration.

I'll never play viola with her legs
or kiss the neck she breathes through,
or find her in a stranger's gaze and wave,
seeking inspiration.
Goodbye pretty girl. Goodbye tableau.

I have ideas to find and channel like rivers.

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