Emma-Jane Arkady
Lost
They leave, slowly trailing clothes across the lane
as I turn in, play sad strings, Imogen
conducting Holst on a scratched LP,
the glowing daughter and lather creation,
the expensive pick-up now tracking
over a small patch of marmalade
mine left me as a souvenir.
I watch through the curtains as a viola
sounds the dismal creature it is, watch
the small ones searching the wood across
wondering if mine still look in odd places,
ask strangers if they have seen me.
Page(s) 26
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