Nothing is wasted not even a street word
Caught from the shirttails of a senior poet,
A burr through his early morning hill walk.

The burr is a waste we flick off back home.
If we do not, it swirls in washing machine
Like a cosmic body in the wastes of space.

The burr reads like story of word pursued,
A reason for poem in early hours of dawn
Before a milk comes in bells and whistles.

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