I stop grading oddly formatted papers
and decide to do dishes to have cookware to make macaroni and cheese.
Velveeta can stuff it. I use real cheddar and
scrape my bowl clean because
I'm only hungry
when it's not time to eat and
I only want to write poetry
when it's not time to jot.
But I jot anyway,
knowing late-night macaroni-ed thoughts
are only cheesy line breaks
oozing from a tired noodle.
True poems sprout best in sunlight.
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