There is fraying yarn sitting on top of
old records playing a katydid cacophony.
You smell like old nail polish,
sitting regal at the kitchen table,
hands poised, ready to whisper about the
memories of off-white pearls.
Once fresh pages of Today's News,
your headlines have yellowed
from exposure to the elements.
And when she asks "what elements?"
You have a secret, sad expression that
keeps us guessing, curious and cross-legged
on the summer-sticky-linoleum.
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