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Thursday, March 3, 2022

The Caller, Terzata #36

I woke to the voice of the Caller

Saying “Call me. It is late.”

Like a Saturday night brawler


I responded with physical hate,

But it was too close, too soon.

(My challenges do not abate.)


I recall the sound, an ear-worm tune,

Like a long undiscovered cancer,

The dire gift of an angel or goon.


It’s too late to become a dancer.

I’m just a word-addled scrawler

With one question and no answer:

Do flying sparrows grow smaller? 

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