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December 6, 2013

Whirligigs. ~ Brian Beatty {Poem}

 

Her surly, burly husband

chops at the same log all day

 

every day and spins whatever

way the wind blows,

 

getting nowhere

in every sense of that phrase.

 

Meanwhile,

far across the garden breeze,

 

his beautiful, dutiful wife

waters a flower pot to death,

 

whether rain’s fallen recently

or not.

 

Well, she pretends to, he says.

Nothing’s grown. 

 

She continues to smile, happy

the distance between them means

 

she doesn’t have to hear him

piss and moan.

 

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Editor: Paige Vignola

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