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Garb
Her clothes have left her.
They have crossed the floor,
riding a camel train of shadows.
Tights have twisted to fleshy mounds.
A bra gawps twice, spine bent.
Shoes topple over drunken heels.
A little black dress climbs a chair.
A vision of him closing the door -
harsh parting words.
She roams the apartment,
picks up her strays, gathering together,
whatever yesterday wore,
tidying him forever
out of her life.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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