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The trap
Her life goes by like a short train
what did any of us do? we knew she was angry, we knew she was alone but we did nothing. A cousin will give her second hand clothes and second hand holidays her father carries a drawing of Santa Claus in his pocket book cheeks red as blood, beard white as innocence – he kept it all these years an uncashed betting-slip. What’s left is almost over – you got no farther than a wet square daytime television, a slipped glass in the sink a candy striped hat at a wedding a boy with a limp you were never meant to get anywhere: we could have done something – tripped the wire, sprung the hare. |
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