(In memory)
Outside the terminal
lining the streets congested
by heat and car fumes—
The desperate.
Blocking zig-zagging taxis
in sheer numbers,
the begging women pleading
to sell their babies—
Arms outstretched
like holding a bread loaf.
One black dot on my pale
wall signifies nothing.
A perfect round ink splotch
from the day you shook
the printer cartridge—
squeezing out the last bits.
The women in Calcutta
wore the same dot.
A perfectionist
you had wanted to repaint.
I told you to forget it.
Susan Isla Tepper is a twenty years published writer in all genres. Her current project is an Off-Broadway Play on the subject of art and life.
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