All was quiet in
Cubicle Row save for
The insistent clacking of fingers on keys
Stomachs rumbling silently
Wordsmiths locked in servitude to their
Silicon masters
Writing poems that don’t scan when they should be chasing stories about power lines
Cubicle Row save for
The insistent clacking of fingers on keys
Stomachs rumbling silently
Wordsmiths locked in servitude to their
Silicon masters
Writing poems that don’t scan when they should be chasing stories about power lines
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