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Bucell (2)

Mike Bucell
[Don’t be so mean to me]

“Don’t be so mean to me”
you said in your make-shift voice
that creaks like a floorboard
in a musty yellow thrift-store.

I stood dimwitted in silence
watching my cheap watch
run five minutes fast,
as it had all night long.

“You’re pulling my leg”
I said as the sunrise opened.
My eyes, drunk with a new blue sky
turned to see your arms and thighs

twist and turn into thin,
white twigs and branches
of a sagging birch tree.
Now I peel the bark off your trunk

to write down a short
poem to remember you by.

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