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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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