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A Poem: Rough Morning 

I do not have to be happy.
I do not have to skip on tippy toes
for all eight blocks to the subway, whistling.
I only have to get from point A to point B
with eyes pried open,
feeling cracked cement rise up to meet my boot heel,
keeping vigilant for random signs of life—
preferably mine.

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Speaking of Poetry

  • A poem by Michael Karas.

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