In her poetic style,
Metaphors tripping into lucid dreams,
Added to endless files,
Scrawled in notebooks and on café napkins,
At her corner table,
Or searching graves of poets who've left us,
Completing missions they weren't able,
Leaving at their tombstone her epic's fruits,
Are they for her or them?
A Polaroid marks the moment for her,
So, they live longer, then.
Not a bad trade,
Passing the scribe's baton,
And one day, when Patti's with Fred again,
May there be another to pass it on.
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