Sunday poems - August 22
This Generation
She rides her motorized scooter
to the morning gathering place
lights her cigarette--
She interrupts the scuttlebutt
by clearing her throat.
When I was young
no no-account child would run
in front of my scooter.
She patted it
like a favorite steed.
The conversation turned
to the no-accountedness
of the next generat…
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