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When Robert Frost wrote
“Nothing gold can stay,” he could
have described child stars.
Bored orange nibbles
away black’s filmy fins. Sad
stubs flail lost beauty.
Would you check into
a portal to hell? Watching
on TV’s enough.
Eyes hidden under
shaggy white brows, I can still
see them shine with love
The Situation
is they’re all seconds away
from being has-beens.
A haiku a day?
After a year away I
need to play catch-up.
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