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Poem-a-Day

Relics

Relics

 

He chose to keep his baseball mitt.
He hung it from a nail in the garage
Where he knew he wouldn't see it
Often. An anaphylactic hand, it was
Hideous, but it comforted him.

 

She chose to keep his favorite shirt.
It had runs in it like old shirts get.
She kept it folded in a bottom drawer.
Once a season she washed it
And hung it on the line with theirs.

 

Sometimes he would see the shirt.
Sometimes she would see the mitt.
But neither said anything
To the other about it.

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