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What I wouldn’t do for a piece of the fox
who attends the night-school up the street.
I walk there, just fifty short-city-blocks,
New York like Moscow, is hard on my feet.

If I had not looked in the mirror,
I guess I would have forgotten,
that I look as old as my grandfather.
I’d give my left nut to be thirty again.

The girl simmers near me as I brush my attire.
The assignment is: compare and contrast.
I think the life, a KGB agent might desire,
requires reading Emily Dickinson’s past.

All of us are sequestered in our own way,
refugees or murderers, day after day.

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