Wipes Poem by Dan Brown

Wipes



Pure white cloth
kept in a box
soiled by mechanic-hands
black unwashable stains.
Handy for hamburger-hands
greasy fingers pulling at paper smells
or for grazed knees and their muddy
unconcerned faces.
Or even for wiping tears from cheeks
on a dark night by the sea -
their scent and dampness yours, baby.

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Dan Brown

Dan Brown

Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, UK
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