Woe is Me

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My literary idols hail from Mantua and Florence.
I sat on a runway in Sicily for 15 minutes, once.
That’s the closest I’ve been to their greatness.

In my youth I owned a Davy Crockett hat
and once spent three long months in Waco, Texas.
That’s the closest I’ve been to The Alamo.

I traveled to Concord and Philadelphia,
walked the old, stone streets and touched the Liberty Bell.
That’s the closest I’ve been to Revolution.

I camped for two days in the South Dakota Badlands
and spent two hours walking around Little Big Horn.
That’s the closest I’ve been to Genocide.

I visited Robert Johnson’s grave at midnight
and put my hands in B.B. King’s in Indianola.
That’s the closest I’ve been to The Blues.

I met Bob Dylan on the road in Montgomery
and put the fear of God into his security team.
That’s the closest I’ve been to Death.

I read Allen Ginsberg and Alfred, Lord Tennyson,
studied Byron, Yeats and William Blake.
That’s the closest I’ve been to decent poetry.

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