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By Lynne Potts
Without buttons left on a hedge in Morningside Park,
pale green smell of mold in the lining, frayed lapels.
Who knows how it came to be here, threadbare
in the night --what arms flung it?
We are of a lost mind, not understanding
how so much went wrong in the land;
not just drudgery, or longings for our children,
but also the rumble of distant trouble--
days rolled over, doubled up with doffed
imprints of someone who once
slid arms into it before a Bergdorf mirror,
feeling so twill, so blithe, so ready to show off.
© Copyright 1997, 2019, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 11/04/2007