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Imprecation With An Irony
My mother's notepad for stenography
now bears some first drafts of my poetry---
and that is a delicious irony.
She always had despised my avocation
and tried to sabatoge it frequently,
speaking quite unmaternal derogation---
sole constant of her personality
(no open hand, but always the clenched fist).
Almost three years have gone since her decease:
her passing brought us all a sense of peace;
and not by many, at all, is she missed.
Starward
[jlc]
