These poems I write
are trash & trite.
Filled with some things
I thought you'd like.

And so, I stand
on a thin band
of worn-out land
that I thought grande.

Alas, my knees shook
and without a great hook,
I found myself falling
straight into a book,

but my book was not fantasy.
& as such, I could not fly. But
my thin band of worn land, so grand,
was all that stood between me &:

My bestest friend, the ampersand.