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Like a shoebox filled with smiles and hellos

Tucked between the postcards I’ve collected

My history is littered with the remnants

Of the ‘might have been somethings’

And ‘could this have gone some where’s’

The waiters, at whose smiles, I didn’t blister

And the bartender, who

If only I wasn’t with my mother

We could have turned this encounter

Into something to really remember

But as it is, they never went anywhere

Only close calls to be recalled

When I put pen to paper

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