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The Photographer
by Elizabeth Domike

If this story were a color
it would be egg blue
and wistful too
as I sit here with the telephoto
and look out the window.

I like the round ones best
in this condemned empty room
even the internal walls are gone.
My hands shake.
I haven't been able

to afford film for a long time.
I just like to look
from this vantage point
above the beat up gallery
for art done by the disadvantaged.

Nice name for us.
I'm so old sometimes I forget
what sex I am;
she is so pretty. I have a key.  

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