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Foreign Relations

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They had faces just like cherubs, chapped, pursed lips
Eyes that looked through heavy lids and
Olive-brown skin the color of wet wood.

Small boys with small, cardboard pieces
Pressed against my ironed jeans
With anxious words, no premeditation
There, just wispy foreign chatter—

When their feet had left greasy sweat stains on the concrete,
I found the dearth of my wallet.




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