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Dead Roses

by John L. Holgerson

I cannot write a poem

the way you painted a portrait.

I cannot write a line

the way you drew one.

But Vincent

I have been in that

second floor room

with the two chairs

one against the wall

one next to the bed

and leaned out

the only window

at first light


if by

painting them

you were


to save

the roses

dying on the

outdoor tables

of the night café

across the street.

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