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Decades Ago


Shoveling the snow
As if I were shoveling
Death away, my gloved hands
Gripping the handle firmly,
I clear the driveway
Bordered by tall pines,
Bending, lifting,
Seeking perfection,
An old man young with desire,
Thinking of the woman
I met decades ago
Who waits in the house.


Michael Miller

Passager

Winter 2017


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