There is an Indian tribe whose members
ration their words and choose them carefully
because they believe we are appointed a
certain number of words to speak during our life
and then we die.
I, on the other hand, seem to treat
letters and words
like coins and currency, filling
some bottomless account with
deposits that are not even kept
and cannot be spent.
What if I'm struck down in mid-sentence, poised
with poetry or prose, describing a mountain stream
or declaring love from my death bed that
I thought was a chair in a coffee shop?
--rLp--
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