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Flowers
Poem
Flowers
Like a dying stream,
the notes and coins
she stores in a jar
deplete as in a drought.
Each day she washes
in the yard,
shuffles to the stall,
buys her bread and olives.
Once each week
she buys some flowers.
Glorious bunches.
Sun filled reds and yellows.
People nod and smile,
say how they and she look fine,
how they enjoy
her window sill display.
This week
the jar has emptied.
Tomorrow, perhaps,
no bread or olives.
But worse,
next week,
no flowers.
Michael R Chapman
~ master of none ~
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