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National Poetry Month 2021 Little squares
Lines of black on white
Scattered across my floor
Incomprehensible
Until
I saw more spilling
From the broken maraca
That could not be discarded
Reminding me
How you
Insisted
That they be collected
Although neither of us
Smoked
And ultimately
You had me
Picking up the damned things
As well
Looking toward some
Eventuality
You would never have
Covid
I gather all together
And replace them on the shelf
