The bricklayer and the technician

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Patty cake and bye-bye waves
flicker across oceans, mountains,
an empty hole where the smell
of familiarity still reigns true
even though the hutch was moved,
the pictures inside now unfamiliar
and the faces within unrecognized.

She’s getting so big.
Look, she’s getting tired.
Let me rub her precious head.

From an ocean away, the miles
hold no weight for a family’s love,
the love of simply being, irrelevant
to touch or smell or proximity,
but will she still know your sound
once the wires are tossed aside
and the fences come crashing down?

(dtn)

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