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hearing a certain song now
resonates inside your heart
as if it really held strings;
and your eyes begin to leak the grief
that is drowning you by degrees.
your record collection
a roll call of the dead.

it carries the same unexpected pathos
as the accidental discovery
of something banal or mundane
– a note to the milkman,
for ‘one extra pint, please’,

 a recipe or an address –
in the handwriting of
a deceased parent, so
grant et al
 familiar and now so seldom   seen.
they will never put pen to
paper again.

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