Non-Erotic Poetrythe log-truck driverBy the bar
(between two black stools)
we shook hands
we shot the bull
on this and that:
candid confessions
kitchen-table philosophy
hours passed
the sun was sinking
into the country hills.
he had to get up at 4 am,
which may or may not
be earlier than students of Zen buddhism
I was bust
so he bought me the last beer,
as a Zen monk
might re-fill a friend's tea-cup
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