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Elegy for the Unadopted

Howie Good

I was resting on the flowered couch after work. You were there, too, nursing someone else's baby. We heard a noise like the sky emptying black baseballs from its pockets. We thought about hiding the baby in the basement. Remember? Or in the field behind the house among the mournful eyes of meat cows. It's so long ago now, but the birds at the feeder still talk about it, how night scratched at the door and I let it in rather than go searching for some matches and a candle.

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