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Melting Butter

 

February, and the window's open!

Laughing the cold in like

there was no tomorrow,

I really should get up

and close the echoes resounding

around the room, but

laziness vomits laziness,

and besides, words flow now,

like melting butter left out

in a summer kitchen.

There's room here,

to yawn, to reflect,

to slap the morning silly

as I wait to see

if the postman is kind.

 

by

Ian Sawicki