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brooke
Poems
Nov 2016
No one.
I look up because a child is screaming
but it's just the man on the steps--
he takes a drag and wheezes
folds in half, disappears inside
his hood, nothing but the tip of
australian umber for a face
he curls again in anticipation
these pitiful silent gasps followed
by a wail, the children screaming
the black whistling.
(c) Brooke Otto 2016
my neighbor.
Written by
brooke
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