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At nine decades and more, l struggle to live with who I have become.

I feel the urge to be heard but my voice is too small to break the silence that I have installed

Around myself.

By remaining quiet when I needed to be heard, I have lost my urge to raise my voice in favor Of those in need.

I have a friend, a musician who plays the cello, coaxing beautiful, rounded sounds from a Few pounds of wood and four strings.

His wife is blossoming with a new life.

He is afraid that he has not made the grade as a dad and is mad with anxiety

How will he pay?

Day upon day, he goes away from her embrace to chase the answer to his fears.

He takes his cello on his back to the tracks where trains hurtle past.

Today he will play Ave Maria whose somber tones match his own

He finds a sliver of sun, opens his case and puts in place a little sign, Lettered by her.

“I am busking for my unborn son”

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May 23, 2021

So beautiful. And your voice is being heard. Let's gather all these into a little book. Just finding I can read them all now on your beautiful website. xoxoox

May 28, 2021
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Thanks for your note. I think this is the best poem I have written. When I started I had no idea where it was going, but instinct kept probing.

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