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Winter mornings if Mom has vanished,we pour quiet bowls of cereal, milk,we know she searches backstreets, abandonedstructures. Another, sometimes me, waits on the line, to describe to a faceless nursehis red mustache, his to…
Pluto Wolnosci 🟣
Nancy Oglesby
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I explore life and tell stories! Embracing the world of Drabbles. Publisher of Fiction Shorts, the Challenged, and Another Fucking Publication
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