What Good

Each morning, a choice, to wake from sleep and reach
for glasses. The red river makes none. It pours
to lakes filled with rain that couldn’t help but fall through

clouds chocked from taking droplets in crowds
tugged by a baking sun whose bright mug
could not shake the need to burn. What good
our fake complaints, this hour?

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Author:

A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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