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The cat by the road is one I used to know. A screen door that opens bangs like ours on Ninth. Somebody whistles a tune that the milkman always tried. Hundreds of lines of light begin to drag our little town toward today, and I see that time is like taffy - you touch it and you can't let go. Every day of your life shivers around home to get in: You open each morning softly, and you stand by the door and look out, the way your mother did.

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