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  • Accordions are startling machines.
    Like musical milk steamers.
    I wish they were more like tea pots:
    a slow build to shrill.

    My breath snapped as a foot stomped
    on the subway-car floor and
    the button players wheezed.

    I resented the jolt.
    It's Saturday morning.
    With its soft skies and my fleece tights
    and my mecca to baked eggs on the west side.

    Until I realized
    I desperately needed a jolt just like that.
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