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If This Poem Were a Book

If this poem were a book
on the cover would be a photo
of the author, much younger
with his daughter, content
in his arms. Inside,

the pages would be supple
as her smile, back
before she discovered
I was not a god and her
self, but a minor deity.

It would be dedicated to the one
who will never find the time
to assess its weight, always
too busy these days, reading
the fiction of strangers.

If this poem was a book
I would keep it near
the woodstove, on the mantle
with the matches, ready

to be used to start the fire
if by co-incidence it’s cold
on the day she comes
to clean out the house.

                                                                     Published in
Stoneboat Literary Journal

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