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Maker

Wake-up call from the ether,
Earlier than usual.

Bad news. 
(Always is, Ma)

They found something.
Both breasts.

Specialist, a surgeon:
“I wish I could say it’s nothing.”

65, ready:
“It’s up to the Lord now.” 

He who wrote the cosmic shitlist.
In ink.

Did you really think 
You’d outlive your anger?

Or mine?

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