SAMUEL STRATHMAN

One Rainy Afternoon

Petrichor shivers,     
buckled knees, wet   
foreverness of leaves;  

I stick my tongue tip 
between my teeth, 
consider the abbot

across the way— 
his peculiar grace.  
He waves awkwardly, 

then continues to wheel 
the grocery cart 
using hips and no hands.  

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