You look like your father,
You talk like the rain,
Hands clinched like a slingshot,
All colors, no grain.
Glass on the floor,
Don’t touch it, its hot!
Each day, same as before,
Whether we’re ready or not.
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Sometimes writing is so good it hurts my feelings. 🖤 twitter.com/CincinnReview/…
Walking away from social media today but not before sharing this. @brywashing continues to be one of my favorite Htown writers to read. #Vote newyorker.com/news/news-desk…
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