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Showing posts from May, 2019

Poem: A Salt Seller

Photo by Zack Jarosz
I swear the worst sort of illness,  is one you never quite recover from It lingers over tea,
Leaving damp hand towels on the bathroom floor,  and a gaping hole where one's guts should be A disrespectful guest
A vagabond salt seller Door to door, with trinkets and buttons Just to send one to their bed to swoon
and suffer
Oh, but through the years, I have learned to sew,  and a million maidenly things to do nibble at my day
Yet my mind, is still... Minitroubadoura 2019 (uj)