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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: August 20, 2016

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Submitted: August 20, 2016



And Max recalled
his ex wife saying:
if that's how you
like it, then go off

somewhere else, I am
not that kind of woman,
I don'tmind doing
things, but that takes

all, I mean when I was
a little girl my mother
said: don't do that kind
of thing, and so now I

won't. He recalled that
clearly, that way she
had of saying things,
that look in her eyes,

that set of lips, and O
to think he'd bought
her that expensive bag
and coat and those

shoes. O God those
shoes how the heck
she walked in those
he have no idea. He

sighed and wished to
hell she was that kind
of woman, and he
thought that maybe

she was, but no she
wasn't, and so he got
out his little black book
that his old man gave

him, and in it were names
of dames to be called in
an emergency, and he
laughed: by God most

of theses are old dames
now, past their prime,
too old or with no time.
He scanned the pages;

names appeared, funny
names, long names, names
with just the letters together,
and ticks beside them

what the heck did that
mean? And did his old
man see all these dames?
Just writing in black ink
with names and names.

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