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I write poetry to get me out of my own bleak blackness. Doggerel if I have to, or even a limerick.

It is wonderful to read a few of your words. I worry. Out of place, almost surely, but I worry.

This is a cute little not-blues. (I love a story song. I still listen to “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree,” even though I memorized every inflection forty years ago.) The Crusaders had that late seventies TV-theme jazz funk down. And then there’s BB.

Be well, Anna.

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