I think he said his name is Trotsky.
Maybe he plays the piano.
Some rooftop Lothario in a fiery mold
and a mile wide leaf on the faultless highway.
Nobody here will grow up
until I say so.
Steam wasn’t the only groping.
There was the ergonomically challenged clothespin
sprawling with doubt.
Measure for treasure, I always say,
he said. No clouds like the present.
2/17
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