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He Is ReachingTo Laura Fletcher's previous piece      Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of HappinessTo Laura Fletcher's next piece

And to hold your hand for just this one night
I would play your game.  I can listen to talk
of not loving him anymore.  For you, whom

I have dreamed of for years, your head on my
shoulder at last, my hand is warm.  You wear
gloves I found in my jacket.  They are small and

blue.  Old friends of yours pet your arms and
talk about old times.  They are my old friends
now.  You laugh like I have never heard you

laugh.  It starts so low and ends so high.  It is
joy.  Your hand quivers, gives me your thoughts.
I wish you would not wear the gloves.