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Edward Derby
Twelve
The bus kneels
for the bent ghost
of my father,
twinkle in his eye.
He boards with
a box of Voodoo
Doughnuts,
a dozen sweet
apologies.
He looks at me
but doesn’t offer them.
bottom of page
The bus kneels
for the bent ghost
of my father,
twinkle in his eye.
He boards with
a box of Voodoo
Doughnuts,
a dozen sweet
apologies.
He looks at me
but doesn’t offer them.