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Poem before Video Store


by Phoebe Wilcox


Last night was full of little fists
and
another state filled with foreignors
and one
elusive love.
He was every age and
I made pasta at the festival
absentmindedly put everything I had
into the pot.
Searching for him
every hour
everywhere.
Searching
for what?
Tilted windmills
toppled windmills
lies and deceptions
perfectly rendered?
My straw hat was returned to me
by his mother.
She smiled and I was glad.
But really
morning is never
so charitable.







  
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