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TheBreast: A Poem By Charles Simic

theBreast: A Poem By Charles Simic

already started. While shivering and stamping our wet feet. If he could only be a fly on the wall. By and by a black girl joined me on the steps. This individual's world is only partially explained. While I strained to hear a splash, Or glimpse her running back to her clothes. If he could just hear what the cooks in the kitchen are saying about him, his order, which they've cooked but burnt so are having to recook. A meek little lamb you grew your wool.

Or is he new to the place and already disappointed with it and himself? Falling snow is traditionally, arguably, a romantic kind of thing to be happening. What sort of world does he still inhabit if he thinks that choosing a table is worth even a mention? The new snow on the sidewalk bore footprints. Only prolongs the feeling of loneliness. Her name was Alma, a propitious sign.

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