1.27.2009

he didn't have to.

by Amy McDonald

I can tell by
the paper-white of your
Sunday-best
crisped with
the starch of sails.

You bend to the
ground—unaware
of both my lurking observation
and the age heralded by
the chalk of your hair.

And I can tell
by my reflection
in the midnight ink
of your belt
and the urgent lineup
of big-ticket purchases
draped securely on it.

that you
are no maintenance man.

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