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by Sharmagne Leland-St.John

He hands me the cup of his sorrow
each night while I sleep
I take small sips
the liquid bitter-sweet

His hair snow white
and I think
Well of course
it's been 13 years.

I take another sip
and wonder
If I drink slowly,
will he stay longer
this time?

He never sits
he stands
hands in pockets
he speaks
and the timbre
of his voice
takes my mind
whisting back
to Larrabee Street
where he first
cradled me
in his arms
in a canopied bed
in my dormer-windowed
attic room
in the little English village
where I lived
50 years ago
a 20 year old
without a plan

a girl who just
wanted it all
and who
eventually got it.


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