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The biscuit

by Jack Houston

And here is my chair. And here is the window
through which I am watching the day turn outside.
See the pigeons flock off in a tumbling oneness.
See the children all walking to school hand in hand.
See the bus pull up, stop, and take on a passenger
so that everyone has to squeeze up tight inside.
I take a sip of my tea, my one cup of tea,
and see clouds ganging up on the sunlight,
the sun bursting through anyway. See the play
of the light as it shines through the leaves,
hanging on branches, thickly, together.
See the quarrel of sparrows dart through.
I think about having a biscuit. I don't.
I think about going outside but I won't.

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