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Saturday Morning, Early, With Rain

Almost hot coffee, an amber dog, a blue ballpoint, a drugstore notebook, this chilly porch.

Saturday morning, early, with rain.

I move the pen, and poems appear.

Words of love for a Iover I do not have

Yet.

The words tumble and make my lips bend at edges where mirth + years will someday = wrinkles.

One day, she will be in my bed, warm tangled limbs on pale blue sheets,

while I sit here with this small dog

and write of her.

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