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Iced Cubes
I don’t get it
The now of then
The how of why
The who of whom
Six kids one toilet
Last one in line
Squeeze tight the cheeks
Such drama, nobody speaks
Hands that tell lies
Search for brittle memories
Clutch at the past
As it fades away
Don’t like the cold
It pinches my cheeks
to make breath clouds
The bus is late
Copyright ©
John Lawless
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