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July 18, 2017

Here’s a man, I see him often,

who works the counter at the market,

with shaky hands

a jailhouse tat on his thumb muscle,

a shaved head.


Sometimes he likes to pace,

but rarely likes to talk.

He just scans those barcodes with

his trembling hands,

the glimmer gone out of him.


He said “hello” back to me tonight.

What was that spark?

It was misting outside.

I had bought wine and fruit.

That is all.



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