A visitor spoiled my poem.
I was spoiled for choice,
My spirits so high,
Rhythm and meter right.
Then, that cursed doorbell.
A cursed friend of the past,
Grey, frayed, gloom-mantled,
He came to say goodbye.
For that, I lost lines of love.
He lost his job a few years back,
Tried farming, sold his wife's gold,
Now, ready to board a flight to nowhere.
As if I have not heard that before.
Hope to drive a truck there, I heard him say,
For my wife and kids, to live somehow.
I wish him luck (damn him!), race him out.
That damned poem gone for a guy called I.
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