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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