It’s a stranger’s name to you,
an entry in an index you won’t use,
eight letters that strut across
the page, sounds that sing their
only song- one time.
Thatcher: two impotent syllables,
conjuring no colors to your mind.
Unless, of course,
you were there.
In Thatcher,
with me,
squirming our toes
into the cold
sand at the park across
from the gas station-
February, 2004.
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