Creative Writing

Kitchen people. [Poem]

The shadowed shape
takes peculiar form. At six-forty,
the dorm is a sleeping tomb
for the rest of them. In our
communal room, I’d like closeness to stem
from the roots beneath wood.
You know if I could, I’d avoid the rejection;
it happens in thirds.
Won’t you pin our connection
as a badge on your coat?
(In the morning, I wrote
such thoughts into words.)

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