By Sammy Ginsberg
In my special place,
With a little patch of dirt,
With a head of weed,
And two bushes as eyes.
I lit it up with blue and pink lights,
And set a candle on the floor,
And it is beautiful.
Gosh, I wish I wasn’t so egotistical.
In every poem, I write from me.
But that is because
Anyone can write from someone else,
And only I can write for me.
I look back at the pages:
Seven hundred and seventy-six.
I weigh the book in my hand:
Point-seven-eight.
I close it, as thrill rushes
To meet the floodgates of my pride.
I have done it.
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