Some days no one comes.

I meditate like an old sage,

glad for the conversation of wind, 

the Willow’s back scratch and

the moss boot cuffs. 

The days when they came,

I remember a summer coat, 

celebrated in snowcem white,

concrete tall and plastered plumb. 

Those were the days when

young boys leaned, fingers clung, 

with boots dug in well worn ledges.

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