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John Edward Smallshaw
Poems
Aug 2019
78 rpm
They're ramping up the volume
to drown out the impending doom
and she says,
room for more on top,
but the bus sails past
it doesn't stop,
we'll walk it to obscurity
which is a day-centre for
the elderly
somewhere West of
Beacontree.
How old is old
we do not know
until we get old
and start to slow,
is that relevant,
relative or just the
elephant in the
narrative?
Written by
John Edward Smallshaw
68/Here and now
(68/Here and now)
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Weeping willow
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