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I Cry All the Time

I cry all the time, for no reason,

for a tree in flower, a magazine mailed

to someone dead, spilled orange juice.

Heretofore I played the stoic.

Some wall of brick around my

soul disintegrated. I am fearful.

I fret for things that cannot matter.

Things don’t matter.


Of late I dream about my parents.

I’m old. I can’t recall when they

died, perhaps I never knew. Had I

been born to different parents

would I now not be crying?

Or crying more?  No reply.

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