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Scarves

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Dad would be the frayed ends
Showing how worn down he is
How “at the end of his rope” he is

Mom would be the holes
How they were “thrown in”
For “decoration,” the weaver said
But were picked at constantly
Until they gape, stressed

My brother and I are the threads
We weave and connect
Passed back and forth
Unimportant and unnoticed,
But always there





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