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October 15, 2016

Once plump in his lapel,
And singing out sweet
Scent of rose and lily
Of the valley; promises

In a buttonhole. A small
Piece of her bouquet
Gracefully placed in long,
Satin-gloved fingers,

And gliding up the aisle
Like a ghost. The
Boutonniere now smushed
Between hotel matchbooks

And cufflinks in a wooden
Box. Years passed, but it
Escaped the sentence of the garbage
Pail in each clutter cleanse.

We hold on to hope, even when
all evidence proves it a foolish
notion right from the start
of the thread pulled and unraveling.

 This is Poem #182 from the  Poem (almost) Everyday Project. 
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