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PROFILE A barrel of laughs rolls down the street Clowns crawl out, a note in each mouth Sing to me, and the chorus swells, Fills the empty street. The sky, once grey, turns orange I type a line. See me, I write, therefore I see. With regrets, I cannot attend the party I have no shoes. My poems are coded truths Thank you for making room. Through the poem, I feel a kinship with the woman at the other end of the telephone line. Indeed, having a conversation with her is like a ramble in the park, a stroll through a gallery, an afternoon planning a party. Our talk weaves and bobs, darting in and out of the previous topics, circling back to the things she most loves, and for me, helps stitch together a vibrant quilt of the textures and pieces of the life of a woman who never stops growing and becoming. Her energy is contagious, and I want to know more about her. A few years ago, around the time of her mother‘s death, her daughter-inlaw suggested that she join Facebook, where she could share her work and meet other poets. Once she did that she didn‘t look back, and she began to send things out for publication. Before, she says, she did not really bother to send her poems out. ―I was fundamentally lazy,‖ she cracks. ―So I loved getting my first rejection letter, because it meant I actually did something.‖ 78

SPIRACLE JOURNAL Volume I Issue No. 1  

Re. In. Vent.

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