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the shortest Thursday

The shortest Thursday

On the third Thursday in September I trade places with a statue in the park
I never leave him my wallet
Or ask questions

My wife thinks I am on a business trip

The park ranger turns his head and walks around and back again
I do my best to be patient with the pigeons

By the end of the day my back is killing me

There is a millisecond during our final transformation when I feel like a laughing child

Light as the warm air trapped in rumpled feathers
Braced against the autumn wind


About wherearetheheros

just someone my mother might know

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