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Poetry
by Jolen Whitworth
Crooked
Cavalier
The old man advances into view,
his spine twisted as a rumor.
Immune, in an armored chariot,
I watch his cumulus breath escape
the trenches of a dignified chest
and climb steadily atop the gelid air.
Slush-covered feet navigate a few steps
before he stops, reaches into a pocket
to retrieve one tattered black glove.
He slips it over his chaffed hand
like a gauntlet, takes up the reins
of his silver-wheeled shopping steed
and crookedly braces the world's
elements, scanning the battlefield.
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Going
Through The Motions
Grey as the morning,
uninspired and floundering,
I make my way from the cottage
plodding over rimose flagstones,
laptop and chai latte in hand.
I miss the natal spring buds
whose viridescent heads
will crown the earthen womb
and draw in the sun
through photosensitive eyes.
Cursing the voice with its
steady barrage of reasons why
I have nothing important to say,
I consider the consequences
of turning around, slipping
back into my unbiased bed,
where I might curl up in the exact
position necessary to find amnesia.
The dog barks. The post arrives.
Time slows, stretches and loops.
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