Poetry By
Cate Snyder
Published on: 8/15/2006
More Nonsense
Sunday mornings, sometimes the light catches on your dark spindly fingers, your hands waving newsprint in the open window; if only you would leave with pride, suitcase lined in powder blue satin, lipstick and scarves and lingerie tucked neatly away inside. Instead, your hands trail words in the wide shaft of weekend light and I am only sorry that I am not ashamed.
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