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Poem: Callback 

Nothing to lose at the walk-in
but time—

recognition now raises the stakes
and tickles your sole,

an exquisite stone
under your rolling heel,

threatening to throw you
off balance as you

spin like a twister
before stone shadows.

You can’t pick out words
in roughly traded whispers

drowned out by a pounding
in the back of your head

against a secret door
you hope might be unlocked.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Noel Sloboda.


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