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is that long-shuttered, freaky, pansexual nightclub
we danced in, to ’80s music –
Man Ray, it was called.
Gone is the old grove of green trees
glowing yellow with lichen
we walked through, my dog and I,
before it was shorn off and plowed under
and turned into houses.
Gone is the once-young, dancing body I had,
grown withered and bony, pot-bellied and pained,
although sometimes it dreams that it’s young, still.
Copyright 2019 Karen Friedland
Karen Friedland’s Places That Are Gone is available from Nixes Mate Books.