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Joy Hewitt Mann
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Out of Water
We used to walk to the city,
four miles to window-shop
at the Billings Mall.
In Loblaws,
we’d buy salami, chunks of cheese,
small French sticks and milk
in waxed cartons
to wash it down.
Standing in the parking lot, your hair
as long as mine, both
in beads,
our feet sandaled
even in the chill of late October,
we must have drawn attention.
I only think of that now.
