100.

I was gonna write a song for you,
she sings. Sing at such decibels that
all you’ll hear is sound.

She speaks to all of us and one of us.
Not one of us, reader, unless the whims
of some personified superstition can rally.

So amazing, to be the recipient of such a song.
Or the singer, really. To be the one that must
be made whole and safe and warm. We reach

in our finest moments to be that caring of
everyone, but we fall short, like those before us
but differently, maybe less often?

We each grow as we can into the shoes of our parents.
What, honestly, is nation to that? Sir Terry
would, I think, say “not too much.”

The sun rises on the next hundred days.

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