By Adam Clay
Uncle Ned was a poet, but mom
always said he was just plain schizophrenic.
The way he'd catch a poem was to
stick his fingers in the ground, waiting
for one to nibble, which was his cue,
his duty as an artist, to stick his
whole hand into the Earth
and pull this iambic pentameter
creature from the fiery depths. He never
had a book, and I don't think he was
ever published, but he spent the
better part of his life, just off
the rotting porch, fingers in the dirt,
ears to the ground, waiting for a
sonnet or even a haiku to bite.


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