Small scraps of paper
with scribbled lines,
all the smiles and tears
too shy to share
after the one I wrote you
on a napkin.

As I recall you glanced at it
briefly
then said the penmanship
needed work.
What about the poetry? I asked.
That too, you replied.

I would have tried again
but
I’d had enough of metaphor.
Besides
you threw the napkin out
with the pizza box.

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