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Wind Blown
I’m not sure
Where it came from.
Thread bare as it was,
Blown in by the
Morning storm
Or dropped by
Some poor soul
Brow beaten by
The thought of it all,
In any case
There it was,
Bouncing on the slate
Floating around the tables
Creating cold currents
In hot coffee,
The possibility that
Nothing changes,
Only the subtleties,
The framing altered,
The shell game
Continuing as it has
For centuries.
Stephen Nesbitt ©
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