Sunday morning slog
Sweating out a hangover
And grinding through
Last night’s bad decisions
I see an old woman
On a river-side bench
Staring off into the distance
She has a deeply-creased face
Large, crooked glasses
A gray, wispy pony-tail
And layers of faded pink dresses
On her lap is a book
I glimpse the title: Wuthering Heights
And for a moment I wonder
If her soul has been ravaged
By unrequited passion
And sleepless, tortured nights
If she’s thinking of her lost love
And a lifetime of missed chances
As she stares off into the sky
But I’m already choking on my
Next breath and
Running by
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