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Poetry #215
(published February 24, 2005)
by Wayne H.W. Wolfson
My index finger. The throb. An angry red piece of meat, cuticle cliff with a good
sized gap between it and the nail.
It's what I get for being able to point out people's problems.
Slide that paper over here and let me make my mark.
It reminded me of that time, the wart on my foot. It had the same illogical cause
and effect.
She said I had gotten the wart because I lied. I did not lie, I hadn't. I just wanted
to be bad.
There had not been time either way though.
There never is.

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