my thinking tablebysmithpeter©
three candles slightly smoking,
a small jar of mustard, opened, not refrigerated
is there hope in this?
the smoke smells sweet.
the mustard was sweet.
even Mr. Stapler, always prone,
reminds of holding together
with tiny piercings of kinked wire
laconic verse neglects the lengthy tweezers,
a Wal-Mart magnifying glass,
a loupe and many, many scraps of paper
a visitor moth singes its wings
above the remaining lit candle
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