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Fifty

It was a mouthful lounging here.
Lotion gliding down porcelain wrists,
Standing on a soapbox filled with tiny hopes,
Crashing his boxcar racer down Albany Lane.
Her birthday, lawnmower and watermelon tea,
A surprise was had in the form of a gift.
She hugged her mother’s knitted mittens close,
Glittering spots of snow speckled down,
Flappers took to the floor, shimmying from dreams.
A pre-war diner boasts a selection of grits,
Two boys share a beer in a post-war tank.
Lovers sit in Cadillacs on this sizzling night,
As sparrows soared into an open flame.





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