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by Sean Hubbard

Who was that, singing,

just now I heard a

picture.

On the radio.

I know the face be-

hind those empty black

eyes they

don’t remember me.

I’ve loved that little

chair since I was hardly here

not much help at all.

The calm shallow wave

rolls softly upon the wet sand

chasing the seagulls.

To walk this path I

find a sky of deep set blue

I am twelve, again.