
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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