Junior
I never grow old, always stay
cute, blond, curly, the hero's
son, famous as the silver skin
of Papa's Spirit of St. Louis
winging from New York to Paris.
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Taken in early March, a homemade
ladder up to my bedroom window.
March came in like a lion.
I cannot say who silenced me,
my body hidden under leaves,
a quarter-size hole in my skull.
Dogwood blossoms.
Christopher T. George
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