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spysgrandson
Poems
Jan 2017
east of eavesdropping
at the first Missouri rest stop
on I-44, I stopped to ***, to walk
and to listen to strangers
this had been my habit of late
of late being the last ten years, since
I lost her, and sojourned solo
on the move, I would catch snippets:
a "this potato salad is stale," complaint
or a "I don't want to drive" protest
on this June day--summer solstice
I got lucky, for a couple spoke loudly
and I was hidden behind a fat oak
"I'm not going to have this child."
"You don't get to decide alone. It's --"
"No, it's not and it's my body!"
then he jumped up from the table
and marched mad steps to his Mercedes;
it was a royal red
and the hue matters not
to most of you, but it figures
clearly in my rear view
headed east again after I heard
what I was not intended to hear, I could
yet see them just behind my eyes
he, trying in vain to explain
that a few cells mattered--her muscularly
clinging to a convenient cleansing
their words echoing in my head
and in the blood red coach that carried
them east, to uncharted malaise
Written by
spysgrandson
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Walter W Hoelbling
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Ramin Ara
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Michael A Griffith
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