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Of endings and beginnings
By Maxine Rose Munro
The fridge has started leaking
a puddle across the lino. Shopping
still sits in the hall – rumpled
plastic bags noisy as they settle,
milk squashing loaf, cheese cheek
by jowl with room-warm eggs.
The kettle boiled long ago. Though
the tea remains unmade, because
I am trapped in this poem. Unable
to leave until I find the perfect word.
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