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His suits her fine
The shape of himself is locked
in his burial clothes. She passes
the light blue seersucker suit
hung with his scent, in her closet.
His voice is tucked, deep in his name.
whose pockets held keys and
the bells to a father's heart.
He was a florist by trade.
Can you see roses and orchids
and hear his promise of pansies?
A box waits, caressing his pruner blade
and he never apologized for who she was.
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