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Behind the entry bench, the van gogh

blue umbrella wedged at a 35 degree angle

hadn’t been wrap-snapped first.

This would bother me, were it not wet

and needing to freely drip on the hardwood

floor by the baseboards.

This would bother me, but for the carelessly lain

pink scarf inadvertantly pooling,

sopping beyond its mohair fringe.

This would bother me, but I remember the lady who

walked in wearing it, who pretended not to see me.