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Waterloo Memory

September 27, 2012

Gray rainy day.

A red Buick Skylark,

box of tissues

on the back windshield deck,

sorority insignia

on the plastic license frame,

precedes me to the site

where poetry is promised;

a gathering of spirits,

the kindred souls unite.

.

I do not feel

like one of them,

a frog amongst the fish

who needs to rise and gulp

the air for sustenance.

To stay submerged

though curious

and, perhaps, compelled,

would drown me.

.

What do I seek amongst them?

Some kinship born of water?

A thread connecting to a past

shared in unseen strands?

.

I sit in my car

as the droplets streak my windows

and write this poem.

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