My head bows to meet the thumb-covered
inside of the already wet golf-shirt sleeve
to smudge the cheek already stained with
the tepid trail of tears that won’t stop flowing
Eyes-to-cheek-to-chin-to sleeve.
The muster of the chosen loom in perpetuity
Calmly, patiently, serenely they wait.
I hope “Thank you” shall suffice
Eyes-to-cheek-to-chin-to sleeve.
Again I smudge the stain that wont go away.
In my red, white and blue golf garb
I can already smell s’mores and dogs and corn on the cob,
squealing children in the pool.
One more smudge –  then I’m off for the day

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