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Packing My Books 

I’m wearing an old shirt
a half-size too large
that my brother gave me.
The books go into boxes
as I think of you
at the other end
of the world,
or so it seems
tonight.
Dust brings tears
to my eyes and dries
my throat so I stop
for a drink of water
and remember a day
when I was fifteen
and home from school,
sick, wearing an old shirt
of my father’s, and how
good it felt, so soft
against my hot skin.

  • A poem by Gregory Luce.

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