Sunday morning:
clear sky after the rain.
I went to the corner shop
to buy cigarettes --
a five-year-old ritual.
A girl ran the shop:
Cornershop Girl, I called her.
She sold cough and death
but gave lessons
on love and life.
She died last year.
Or so they told me.
But every morning
I go there to look
for my Cornershop Girl.
1 comment:
She died last year.
Or so they told me
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