METAPHORS MAKING
ME WINCE
Twenty harness doctors standing in a line where the tree
meets the horizon and the maid in her lace tells all she
knows. Juneteenth this isn't. It's more like a Mayday
for the heart. Here, here are the keys to the car.
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On days like this, my mother used to bake. Cookies,
bread, anything to pass the rope of time to another
set of grabbing hands. The priest in the rectory, a flute
ready to play a steady accent, the man with the payment
book, they always came swooping through.
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One or the other of something shows up at the cat-milk
doorway. Meowing goes on in the middle of night.
While everyone else seems far away at sleep.
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