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Babies

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He worked the prison garden and always quite alone

For fear of those reprisals that prisoners deal their own;

He could not tell the police, the courts, for reasons had he none,

Not even to himself could he explain what he had done;

So vacantly he tends his plot and lives each day somehow

And nurtures his geraniums which are his babies now.

◄ Sweating the Small Stuff

Honoured ►

Comments

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John Coopey

Mon 7th Jul 2014 22:28

Hello Cynthia, in the end the prisoner lost the plot.

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Mon 7th Jul 2014 15:45

Poignant 'first leaf', leaving the reader to write the 'story'. One can only presume that the plot is the opposite of 'nurture'.

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