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Though this is such a small town
the whole world passes by
in the mornings as we walk
I have been each of you—
The determined and driving not quite grimly East directly into the morning sun
And you, disheveled sleepy man shuffling with a cardboard box under one arm and a cigarette in your free hand
And I’ve been you, little mama, hair pulled back as you fold and stack your yard sale treasures
All of us awake early
before midday heat that flattens all action
flattens even the impulse to action
Today, let us each relax
even revel into
Who you are at this moment
Whoever you may be
Now, I’m going home to write a poem about you
after I move our chairs into cool shade.

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