what she loved about you was
the way you folded the
daily news and set it aside
when you looked at her, the
seven-and-seven in his hand
and Thurber's comic dogs
still capering on the wall for
all eternity, barely held at
bay by dowagers made of
curlicues, staid witnesses to
long-ago afternoons, the
ink fresh upon the paper,
words still unread
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