I tell her I would.
“I would,” she echoes.
“All too many.”
She says,
“…it’s a crime to rhyme.”
“Maybe,” I ponder.
“Maybe next time?” she lilts
quizzing, lyrical.
“I’m thirsty. You thirsty?” she asks
and pours cool water from a blue clay ewer.
“You knew all along!”
“Wrong. Not all along.”
“Just recently.”
Chagall 2018
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