Flannery
lay down at the end of a long
day,
quiet
in her way,
typing at the small desk
by the window.
did she leave
anything behind,
in the closet,
under the bed, notes perhaps,
descriptions
of characters,
the Misfit and the grandmother
on the road
to where
the bodies would lie.
did she stare
out this same window,
adjusting her glasses,
and wonder
what would become of her,
of this world.
of her shortened life,
soon gone.
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