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Two Penney Gallery
by Holly
Raatikka
Shaded from the torture
of a post meridian sun,
You refold your bulletin
into a paper airplane.
And sweat from your palms causes
the ink to bleed into
one
Huge blob. The cancerous
leaflet
dislikes the bleaching
rain
Of sun-drops, but of course
you must have your
frivolous fun.
And so with one violent push,
you send the paper
sailing,
Swooping past heads and hats
and chickens and other
such things,
Airborne by the second thoughts
of opening day, nailing
The crown of the man who plots
the ageless stories
of kings.
Ben Jonson—how could you
set the sage of theatre
ailing?
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