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Paperback Days
 
Sometimes I see you
as you once were,
lying across the couch,
drugstore reading glasses
perched on the end
of your nose, a paperback
war crime in your left hand,
mood swing in your right.
 
I like to remember you
as you once were,
before you became obsessed
with the stories, and disenchanted
with the ordinary of our lives.
If the government wasn't out
to get us, my pasta primavera would.
Remember those words?
 
I remember when the only thing
you used to hit me with was a smile
at the end of your paperback day.

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