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A Poem For Sunday
ByLottery by John Skoyles
Pick a number,
any number,
and it will bear
the teeth marks of time.
The day confetti
stippled your shoulders
to keep love
bright and alive;
the year your newborn
son survived.
The two of us riding
the 33 bus
to the birthday bash
where a prophetic
blues band played
“You’ve Changed.”
The magnificent sum
of always, now, and still
dealt by the god
who pinched fate
into every living vein.
