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PoetryRecovery

As children we'd throw crab apples
laugh into our hands
peeking through the pickets.

Now, I throw hearts;
first booking it -
in competition over cards.

The thud of a brush
thrown into a
half filled box.

A groan, a scrape:
hauling grandfather's desk
down the steps.

Mortal -
the notary's seal
next to my name.

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