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This poem is mournful
And sentimental and filled
With complaints.  Where were you?
When I needed you.

I'd like to make
A bouquet of nice clean words for you
Hand it to you and walk away,
Function accomplished.  I can't
Do it.  This is the shortest day
of the year. Shrunken,
blueveined and cold, deaf mute.
That's me on the corner, sleet
Down my neck, wordless.
Where are you?

~Matgatet Atwood