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A poem by N.L.H. Hattam

I have never seen a cherry tree
And yet I find them romantic.
Going down to them,
Summer fruit,
(or so I imagine.
Again, I know little of cherry trees.)

I think mushrooms are beautiful.
And we all know what that means.

I don’t like it when people tell the truth.
Isn’t there something better to say?
Unless it’s about money,
Then I want more,
Just like grandpa taught me.

It hurts me when people say I’m obtuse.
The most, most acute bullying.
I can’t help
The way I think.
The way I think
Is such a loser.

I am never as kind as I am
To old men,
And I so often wonder whose name
I will call to
When I’ve scraped my last moment off the sun.

But until then, I have my recurring dream,
In which I’m dreaming
Of writing down a thought I had
From a nightmare I made up.
And then I wake and I write,

“Blah, blah, blah.”


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