A question mark,
made of smoke,
in the swish of my freshly shampooed hair,
settles on my raised brow.
An anchor drops,
in a Walcottian fashion,
from the tip of my eyelid
on my Vctorian doormat.
Dissatisfaction instigates
a pregnant pause
as I stare at my perfect finger tips
and bend down to pick up yesterday's newspaper, soaked in dew.
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