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An Ordinary Poem
Picking up the trash
I brush past you.
You say: "mind the ice."
I smile - a mental picture
of my comic duck-walk.
Halfway to the garage
I hear your voice again,
as if your throat were within mine.
I feel your salty gravity
as a presence dipped in my blood.
At the sink,
you kiss my cold fingers
hum a song from ‘Frozen’,
while stirring hash in a skillet.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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