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My Bunk

Nothing would be bashful in my bunk, colorful as confetti,
Hammocks of happily stuffed animals swinging against white wood,
Flowered sleeping bag hugging the center,
Underneath my afghan, always at my feet, tangled between
Books and boxes of doll clothes,
Crayoned papers pawing for a place in the careful chaos,
The comfortable chaos of my little life,
Little enough to squeeze between blankets and the bulkhead,
Surrounded by everything I ever knew to needed
In my bunk, where I belonged, out at sea.





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