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Poetry

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In the end we left things undone.
The piano player drove slowly home.

We did not sing the final refrain.
We did not read one last poem

to the ring of guitar strings.
So many threads

bound one heart to many.
In the end we were practical.

How can you bury a life
and be home before suppertime?


——————————————————
Photo Lissa Arroyo
Final line borrowed from the novel “The House of Broken Angels” by Luis Alberto Urrea

By markthegrey

I am a biologist, author, poet, professor, and parent. I nest in Aurora, IL with my spouse and about two to four kids.

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