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The Friday Poem
A poem every Friday
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April in the Sierra Morena is mild. A hint of heat. / Knobbly-kneed holm oaks, widely spaced, // cast shade over drifts of green and yellow. / The pigs must be ecstatic.
Tell me about when they dropped you and you flew / to the mud-banks of the Ijssel near Arnhem, / scarcely more than a child, with parachute wings. // By your bedside you still have a book:
The Psychology / of Fear: How to Overcome It
I’ll Know I’ve Made It When Going to a LongHorn Steakhouse on a Sunday Evening in the Dead of Winter Doesn’t Depress the Hell Out of Me
— There’s tremendous hurt / in knowing / that in this booth / I will never be complete.