Rhyming Without a License
By Steven Withrow
The copper
Clocked me
Topping
Eighty
In a sloth-
Slow lane.
His strict
Demeanor
Radiated
Obvious
Disdain.
He sidled up
And bridled
At me:
“Late for
A poetry
Slam?”
I stilled
My breath
And told him
Calmly,
“In point
Of fact...
Iamb.”
©2011 Steven Withrow, all rights reserved
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