Protected: The Dry Cleaner

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Using left handed scissors does not solve the woes of the right handed

I used to look at others gardens over flowing with impatiens and geraniums in summer adorned with bold beautiful plane trees proffering shelter on beastly days

In libraries my fingers would caress spines wondering what magic made those words more precious than mine

I check my bag, keys, wallet, coin




The reach of my eyes is bounced through my brain and I want that beautiful idea that floats so precious precarious as a bubble just blown

My passport sits in a large black wallet waiting and ready

I have turned from looking into the spaces across to the spaces inside.  My hands clutch the spade which I sink into the soil of my soul

I pull the weeds of hate the briars of anger and fold in the crumbling detritus of crumbling sadness as I place the fragile seeds tears fall