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Ken Pobo
Found Picture
A barren lilac,
a few trees beginning to leaf.
On the right-hand side
the date: Apr, 63. Fourth grade,
Mrs. Hieronymous. Or Miss?
Memory's a chalk board,
no chalk, just eraser.
In seven months I’d see
a real murder,
Jack Ruby killing Oswald,
my parents out. A Sunday.
My shoulders are back,
my suit jacket buttoned
in the middle,
one button only, pants dark
like muddy cinnamon.
Only us three in the frame.
It’s like we’re on a ledge,
completely unconcerned
that we may step badly
and fall. Everyone steps badly.
You have no choice.
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