Startled by the squeaky wings
Of a dove passing overhead
Like an old shed door pried open
Where I have stored some things
I couldn't quite get rid of
Dare I cross the threshold
To retrieve that stolen look
Now buried in a stack of books
You gave me see I've kept them
In memory's little hideaway
Among the things I mean to mend
Some day that broken bicycle
For instance still has life
And those skates I skated by on
As if it would never end
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