I keep looking for the book, for the poem
that will hold for me the words of that Monday--
end of summer--when coming home from work
I rounded the corner & there outside the store
was my daughter holding our neighbor's
month-old baby. It was the day before
her thirteenth birthday, & above her smile
was a look of concentration I've seen
only in certain virtuoso performers
just before
the music begins.

Gerald Fleming
Contents | Mudlark No. 3
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