“At ease disease, there’s a fungus among us.”
---childhood taunt of the 1950s in the USA
It must have been when I was still—
As they say—wet behind the ears and thought
It was something I could do every day
And still look at myself
In the mirror without turning away, how
Could I know then
What I sense at last is true now?
Poetry remains
A lingering disease
That once takes root
In the budding brain,
Never knows well
Enough to stop sprouting
Wings and dares
Fly away.
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