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Poem: On Sundays 

I insist on the over sized
coffee mug you purchased
at a yard sale one wistful
weekend in Vermont
when the owner of the house
wanted a dollar and you
convinced her it was worth two.
I will dig it out of the dishwasher
if need be
because on Sundays it is
the only one that will do
for my coffee with the paper
and the crossword as I sit and ponder
on the weathered deck, observing
on occasion, when the news
gets too heavy, the marsh birds
hovering low across the sacred water
baptizing their beaks and caring
nothing for the chip I notice
on the rim of the over sized mug.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Suzanne B. Gillette


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