Meanwhile

Jane Dougherty Writes

And in the doorways of the town,

with skulking cats and litter blown,

a world of drawn and withered men

with roughened hands and wine blown skin,

and raddled women wrinkled red,

sit in silence waiting for

the wind to cease, the sun to shine,

and one of all the passing crowd,

the rushing faces turned away,

to stop and smile and say, hello.

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