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  • Weeping Willows

    A bulging leather satchel settles on a wooden bench,
    the Federal files spill; they mock me.

    The lamp is hushed.

    One yank of an elastic band sends hair tumbling over tight shoulders;
    bare feet slap at the knotty pine.

    Shedding the linen dress, I fall into the Boston sweats;
    the ones that I wore the day the Sinful Messiah died.

    Weeping Willows frame thousands of stars;
    twinkling teardrops.

    Gripping a frosty Corona by the neck,
    I let the screen door slam.

    Pamela Wilonski
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