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Verse

I’ve lately been thinking in verse,
composing thoughts and inner dialogue in
short interlocking fragments.

Quite a change from
my more usual
stream-of-conscious babble.

I’ve been remembering my childhood
in the form of hot, hot sand,
hot rubber, hot cement, hot sun.

Of ants on sidewalks skirting
around my feet, constantly moving.
Of the crisp crunch of dry leaves underfoot

Of white-dusted hands kneading dough,
Of bare feet running tiptoe over hot brick patios,
Of awaking to mourning doves, robins, chickadees.

And I’ve been thinking with my senses,
most especially with my nose.
Prying into hidden memories and
brushing against forgotten chests of scent.

The dankness of basements, the stale tang
of garages, the leathery tannin of fallen oak leaves.
I can taste those scents against my hard palate.

All the more ironic, then,
that I am struck down by a cold
that renders my nose useless.

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