David S. Pointer- A Poem

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Another tough over
the phone poet found
dead or too well-read
crouching low behind
public library stacks
rejoicing 
fitting into a leather
horse muzzle moment
bowing towards his
Bukowski hack pile,
promising never to
roar that croc breath
40 mph though cell
phone or laptop loan
again coaxing himself
towards non-tears and
ever new nom de plume