They sit hunched over in the circle of metal
church basement chairs, clutching scraps of paper
and reading their pitiful poetry to the others,
each voice hungrier for praise than the last.
The long silence at the end of each poem,
is broken by an awkward comment on
the meter or the metaphor or the alliteration,
salve for wounded and bleeding egos.
I'm just a gigolo...
-
OK. The truth be told, I guess I was a gigolo at one time.
I wasn't trying to be. But a woman I had sex with paid me for my time. It
started cuz I missed w...
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