stare
from the desk, facing
a crease of window
out to the cars,
beyond
the lot,
into the woods,
there's a boy fishing.
alone.
his line
in the water,
his shoes in the sand.
will he catch something
today.
i hope so.
i hope so, as i look
at the clock
creeping
towards five, at last,
the end
of this day.
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