Sophie



Golden Oldie –Rita Dove I made it home early, only to get stalled in the driveway-swaying at the wheel like a blind pianist caught in a tune meant for more than two hands playing. The words were easy, crooned by a young girl dying to feel alive, to discover a pain majestic enough to live by. I turned the air conditioning off, leaned back to float on a film of sweat, and listened to her sentiment: //Baby, where did our love go?//-a lament I greedily took in without a clue who my lover might be, or where to start looking.

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