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I Was That Little Girl

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The soundless, soft tapping of snow on the windows,
Coming from the frozen sky.
Falls like the murmuring prayers,
From the rows of beds down the line.

The Des Moines Orphanage is nestled between holly and spruce,
Thick with the fumes of automobiles.
And the dreams of little orphans escapes through tears,
Showing memories of Mammas or Papas.

On the corner of Locust Avenue I hear a little girl crying,
Pointing at the Yoder’s Toy Store window.
“I want that bear. Not this one! Get away from me!”
Her parents stand oddly by the lamplight.

I see the dim Christmas lights are shivering with cold,
As I put my head on the chilly steel bar.
And dream of Mamma and Papa angels by my forlorn bedside,
Not of worthless bears.





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