I
Like a book on the subway tracks
That somebody forgot to read
I, too, am filled with discarded knowledge
More esoteric than academic
My simpering wastefulness
of my meandering stances
And hoping; against reason
That someday you pick me up and use me
And turn my pages
And crack my spine
II
I am riding towards the station
And am feeling rather fat
But I can feel the sunlight on my face
Lessened by the brim of my hat
What does it mean to be authentic
I try to figure it out in our weekly chat
But if you ask me how I feel about it
I'd say it's determined by combat
III
Since your death I’ve been able
To do all the things I did before
And Maybe even after,
I’ve been able to do more
I see the men around me
Whose lives are but a snore
you’re in the man I run to
But Your poverty is my lore
And I’m here to make the most
Of the guts you could not gore
But I’m angry and I’m vicious
That in strangers I implore
To teach me things you wouldn’t
Or couldn’t get to, you know, before…
But in News From Home I know you’re there
In flashing fragments of 24
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