At Bockwinkel’s

It was the space between her knee and the ground
That compelled me to look a little longer than maybe I should have
She had her pant leg tied in a single knot
Just below where her knee should have been
It hung there like perfect bunting
On Lincoln’s funeral train that dewy April morning
I looked back down into my miserable clear plastic container
Brimming with brightly colored blandness and Italian dressing
She disappeared into the neon wilderness
Of craft beers and healthy snacks


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