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Don Bouchard
Poems
Mar 2018
A floor above
My estranged daughter,
I wait news of my mother's
Survival or demise.
Holy water,
A crucifix
Wait nearby,
I know the emptiness of agonized prayer,
Of groaning alone in sanctuary,
Of feeling only limbo,
Only limbo.
It's August.
I shudder
January cold.
Interminable waiting
Written by
Don Bouchard
65/M/Minnesota
(65/M/Minnesota)
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