Ann Abercrombie

Ann Abercrombie Poems

She doesn't fit my box,
he said.
So I'll just cut her where I've
marked in red.
...

This morning in the cove
many sailboats sat quietly
in their slips.
Their masts standing tall
...

How alike we are,
Underneath the garments of
Pretense and pride.
Holding good with one hand
...

The Best Poem Of Ann Abercrombie

Making Over

She doesn't fit my box,
he said.
So I'll just cut her where I've
marked in red.
Oh no! She still won't go inside.
She is just a bit too wide.
So I'll take a little off each side.
She fits my box at last,
he said.
And he was right but
she was dead.

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