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Apr 2014
Bucket List

By Harriet-Tecumsah Watt

What's left when it's done
No more to cross off with glee
No more to choose from
never write angry,
wise counsel for most,
but not this holy *******

I am your bucket,
I am on your list,
or I better be,
and don't be thinking,
my dearest poetess,
that you are all done,
till we meet in the park,
beneath the Golden Gate Bridge.

You, my Hamlet,
always questioning and
annoyingly annoying
keeping me ego-honest,
you are
on my
the toppiest ten of my numerous
bucket list
of lists,
and I ain't crossing you off,
no way, no how.

Word-slapping your face,
frustrated and infuriated,
Watt is left for needy me
in a worldΒ with no

broke, busted, disgusted,
life can'tΒ Β be trusted,
so take your disruptive crying poetry,
bring to me in NYC,
and I'll take you to poetry slams,
tango parties, a real Chinatown,
blow smoke up your nose, Waltz step on your toes,
drink with you in Central Park at five am,
visit half a dozen museums,
take you to the ballet,
and then you can maybe,
cross a few to-do's
off of our mutual

write poem lines together alternately,
hell, even post-modern alternatively,
if that is watt it takes to slap the
Most Uncommon Sensibity
into a woman asking an
A+ stupid question

you are one of gods most
hauntingly lovely gifts
to me,
and I ain't giving you back,

No-red-me-likey-heart* for
Watt's "I'm All Done Bucket List" poem,
just me bucking the trend,
just a lightening bolt to send
up your sorry-for-me ***,
and a private, tender,

I'll come to you if you feeling blue,
get this straight my Indian chief-girl,
no matter where or when,
you better have yourself
Sequoia tree hugging me,
list unchecked,
and not till then
can we toss,
our lists,
in the trash bucket
they belong in.

Am I clear?
Nat Lipstadt
Written by
Nat Lipstadt
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