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I wish the tall, blond, emaciated drug addict I saw last year in the same spot in the filthy bus station in
Puerto Limon wasn’t coming my way and that I wasn’t as attracted to him as I am, which I imagine to be
the reason why he’s heading towards me, knowingly, as though he can read my mind and see the fantasies
I can’t even let myself imagine much less carry out, which is why I am surprised when he only asks for money.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Roberta Allen


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