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Poem: October 28, 2010


These are the extraordinary fiascos

our chests go heaving toward the airport

for. Or, as you already may well know,

Thursdays with the sky a desperate

codependent burden against crumbly brick

that moves with time to residue, can turn to

streams of clouds that lead along long

furrowed paths into autumn weekend

getaways. There are always the departure signs:

A hint of hair strand between fingertips, your

reflection in the mirror, and the sense you had either

over- or under-cooked that casserole in the dwindling

stretch of afternoon. Regardless of neglect,

or the absent-mindedness required for absolution,

a pair of hand-molded potholders waves from the magic hook

pressed magnetically against refrigerator side. You wonder

do they signal you, or motion for the sky surrounding? Translate

and decipher every omen, wonder at the hello

and then at the goodbye.

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©2020 by Kurt Cole Eidsvig