by Mark Danowsky
No one else was around
when I found the poem
in the middle of the sidewalk
on Wayne Avenue
two blocks from Chelten
as if it were meant
for me alone.
This seems so significant
until I remember
all the “notes” I’ve ever written
to myself, like the hand-scrawled
Bring her home below the typeset
poem, the author’s name & the date
of the poem’s inception—precisely
thirteen months ago to the day.
All those words now foreign
begs consideration of masks
of who we want to be
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