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Poem for Martin

You are a postmark

in that wherever you have been

you bear black ink from. The mark

of a writer, or a reader

of phonebooks. When given the choice

between the Yellow Pages and the Gideon,

you are torn in prophetic tests of strength.

These pages are what’s ripping you in half.

That, and motel anonymity.

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©2020 by Kurt Cole Eidsvig