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Wednesday 8am 

Early morning run in Brooklyn Heights

Dreaming of school, Hunter College

First film class.

A whole new world bursting

like a firecracker lit by a couple of kids fooling around on Mott Street just after dusk.

Then came my children

And my indulgences

And my betrayals

I slow down a little

(or perhaps

I'm simply slowing down)

I check my pulse. Sixty-two.

Not bad after two miles.

I feel neither sadness nor guilt

It's just the facts Ma'am.

Life is good now; I'm a better man for being worse.

A beautiful bitter irony I guess.

Sometimes I feel that I live in two separate worlds

Never quite knowing if my memories

Are whispering in my ear

Or breathing down my neck.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Dean Goldberg.

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