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Scrivener’s Cauldron | A Poem by Donal Mahoney

It’s a fire hazard, really,
my wife keeps telling me,
the cauldron that I keep
bubbling in the basement
with its steaming stew of
nouns and verbs but no
adjectives or adverbs
because they’d destroy
the flavor, I remind her.

Whenever I go down
the basement I stoke
the embers roaring
underneath the cauldron
then strain the stew
until I find a noun
or verb tastier
than those I have
simmering upstairs.

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