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Bad Luck

 


His fuchsias, crushed by the iron skip,
were the best I’d ever seen.
Now the builders had bought chaos
to his ordered garden.

In passing he had shared a little
of his life with mine,
explained how to grow fine flowers,
the problem with his legs:
a man uneasy with retirement.

Passing each day with the dog,
logging the changes
I watched the house remodelled
to a plan I couldn’t reason,
watched the garage changed
into a room.

Today,
they built the wheelchair ramp.

 

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