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What are the ghosts that will haunt us in our senescence?
Will it be the lovers that we left on the table,
helpless and breathless?
Will it be the faces of the children that we left
standing on the platform at the train station?
Will it be the dogs that we put down
for no good reason?
Will it be the cackling faces of the
false gods we served in order to accumulate the trinkets that glut the cardboard
boxes in the attics, only to be
fed into dumpsters on some hot summer afternoon
by our grandchildren, as their parents
drive us to a “nice place, a really nice place to rest”
somewhere beyond the end of suburbia?
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