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just a few
my friends have all gone
save just a few that remain
like Thom Yorke and the pack of Seneca Sweets at the foot of my bed
to name one or two.
my bones burn from being hunched over
this futile paperback getaway
but something is better than nothing
my father told me once, just a few
moments before he left for Winnipeg
on the fourth of july.
as I reach for the crumbs in the crumbling cookie jar,
I look out the back gate at the fading garden to
see hummingbirds and snap peas, which always
rolled around on my plate, earning a yelp from my mother
to finish them even though there were only
just a few left.
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