This poem was written in winter quarter 2005.  I just found it in a notebook today.  Here it is, slightly modified from its original version.

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Alone with that bitter plastic taste--
Chewing the end of a blue-inc pen
Pretending productivity
Free vending machine coffee.
Can it get any better?
Warm hands, burnt tongue,
And a Styrofoam smile.



I guess it's just another "alone in the crowd" poem.  I seem to write that kind of thing a lot.

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