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flute in hand,

poring over her shelves,

seeking something diaphanous

in an outfit,

hears the cry of a blocked poet.

Racing to the paper-strewn study

on wings of thought,

she diagnoses instantly,

"Comma, not semicolon!"

And departs, still sans outfit,

a fleeting vision, and there is heard

her faint, elegaic toot

of farewell.

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Rick Park

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