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There Are Only Two Ways To Write A Poem

I got the sneaky feeling that people were looking at Mom in the street. A freaky show. Could have been her beauty they were admiring? Tight under the collar, realising with an Adams apple nervously and angrily bobbing my throat, it just was the erratic clothes, as she grew older, to lead passing folk to smirk in merriment.
A new kind of experience; mom dying.