He ain’t no poet

A poem by Duane H.H. Lyon Yesterday, I went to a tiny park in Pembina, North Dakota to rest a spell and drink a root beer soda. From my purplish RV, I could see Emerson, Canada and Minneapolis, Minnesota. On a silk white sheet I found a cool place in the shadows. A woman soon came and talked my ears off from here to Massachusetts. Afterwards, under the leaves, I wa...

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