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Sheila Knowles


Mateo sat on a rusty bench
outside his local bar
and polished his old guitar
with a crumpled up tissue
he’d pulled from the pocket
of his faded jeans

while Sophie watched
through the balcony rails
as he breathed
his whisky haws
onto the scratched wood
shining it
until his reflection
shook them by the throat
and his fingers
started to pluck and weave
their life through the strings

The music played off key

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