The Creative Writers' Workshop

Mister Mad and Mister Sane
walked out and then walked in again,
their modus operandi the casting of lots
in the midst of milking stools and watermelons.

Which one swatted the idle fly
then proceeded to gadabout inside
the Poetry Workshop where the first experiments
got underway in a zinc white 5am this Eventide?

Somebody must be lying because the ur-figure
has developed its fidget pains again: it grows fangs,
tells us a perfect syntax might get us out of it
but not until we've repented and reformed.

Heaven only knows this could be opera buffa!
The seeing isn't good. I resume my repose.
In a thousand years a tired sky might crash;
let's hope it's not those sonnets that we trashed.

by john temple finnigan

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