The Hours

the Bald Man sits
and types for
hours, and

for hours, he sits
and types, to
make a meaning happen, or

to hone a pointed message to
God, quibble for his
time, canvass for a

clearness of mind, an
explanation for
being, an

excuse for seeing, but
I know what he does
not: that the

hours in between a food
situation are only
hours, and hours
without a
meaning found

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