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Maureen Thorson

FOR THE LONG HAUL

 

 

The rain breaks.

The houses here are blue and white.

 

Distances are inherent.

Yet everything strives.

 

*

 

            And beige. And plain brick.

 

Everything strives.

And misses.

 

*

 

            The florist’s hothouse hydrangeas

                        are joined

            by creamy, tight-packed globes,

                        nodding

                                    over the neighbor’s iron fence.

 

The dogs of Capitol Hill

            make a perky, snuffly parade.

      Beagles, westies,

 

                        the rare and loping wolfhound.

The pit bull wheezing toward the park,

stick already in her mouth.

 

*

 

            At night when I should be asleep,

            facing the wall of your back,

 

            “I don’t know whether to be

                        offended

                                    or to laugh.”

 

            *

 

Warm and fragrant.

 

            We can only walk so far toward

            each other.

 

It might be enough.

 

*

 

                        Our house is

                                    green.

 



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