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A Poem: Rough Morning 

I do not have to be happy.

I do not have to skip on tippy toes

for all eight blocks to the subway, whistling.

I only have to get from point A to point B

with eyes pried open,

feeling cracked cement rise up to meet my boot heel,

keeping vigilant for random signs of life—

preferably mine.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Michele Karas.

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