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Maybe
Maybe it was the sticky heat
That clung as close as the
Morning after the three or
Four glasses too many of
Whatever it was you were
Drinking the night before,
Maybe the notice that after
Fifty-eight years the mill
Was finally finished toying
With the environment and
People and was closing down,
Maybe it was the coming
New moon with the down
South eclipse and the extra
Debate about the coming
Mayan date that seemed
To have everyone in a mid
Winter molasses slow down,
Maybe everyone had downed
Too many maybes resulting
In an atmosphere as thick
And as empty as the one
You slam into when your
Lover silently slips away
Without the slightest warning.
Stephen Nesbitt ©
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