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Poems in the time of Corona

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The thumbnail faces
at the online bookstore
are, bar one,
twenty-something,
smooth in symmetry,
certain in knowing looks,
sure
they'll be forever young,
forever clever,

never fattening into middle-age,
never growing doubtful.

With dithering decisiveness
I order the exception

because for all the social distance,
who let Charles Bukowski in here?

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