BY MARY ANN SAMYN
Beauty makes some men mean; I never can console them enough.
Lifetimes later maybe, a little red fox lies on the side of the road.
I’m the type to notice.
I help myself that way, and dream my father more alive.
He waits again by the library door
as he is, was, and always will be.
I held the book, any book, to my heart, everlastingly.
The rain is heavier now. It is dusk.
Someone whistles in the street. Is it a man? It must be.
Mary Ann Samyn is the author of six collections of poetry, including Air, Light, Dust, Shadow, Distance, winner of the 2017 42 Miles Press Poetry Award. She teaches in the MFA program at West Virginia University.
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