Paul Bryan Friedman
She Left Her Umbrella
Poem by Paul Bryan Friedman
This paradise will never be the same.
The salon is upstairs, on the second floor. You can't miss it.
If I were younger
and no one told me about
days like these,
I'd sing a doo-wah-ditty-dum-diddy, too.
and offers of succor come to late.
Help, I need somebody
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