Poetry Dispensers

She applied his poetry like a salve…

But he complained,

    “It’s a stick

    to poke giants, stir potions –

    and you think it’s medicine.”

She let out a held breath

blowing the dust off her music box;

    the cylinder turned ever-so-slightly,

    the metal comb made pretty “plings”

and he exclaimed triumphantly,

    “See?!”

tis nothing if not heard

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