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you told me about a boy in your life
and then we went on to something else,
afterwards I remembered, I forgot
to ask about the boy,
as I suppose a father should.
This just goes with the stereotype,
me my mind flits, bright lights, moth like,
my goldfish mouth agape
at the surreal sounds and sights outside.
As my hearing range fades
there are words that come packaged silent.
They tumble past my spinning mind,
out of hearing, out of focus.
Looking after them I can smell
importance fumes.
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