a floor below Sylvia.
she was a little troubled,
especially
with the men
in and out of her life,
but a fine poet.
beyond her age,
she was beautiful
and kind,
generous with her home
made pies, though,
quick to correct your
pronunciation
of any word she deemed
not right,
but my god,
all night at the typewriter,
Daddy this and Daddy that
pounded out
on her keyboard.
until the early morning
hours.
with frost on her foreign
windows,
she kept stinging herself
with his bees.
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