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There’s a thirty-eight year old woman, S,
sitting across the aisle from me.
It’s not her black and white checkered coat,
the cream pagmina around her neck.
It’s not her black tights and calf-covering boots
curled up on the seat where they’re not supposed to be.
Not long, layered, brunette bangs swept to the side
or her curiously innocent eyes and freckled skin.
It’s not, but she’s stunning.

Maybe she has her youth in a bottle, like B, thirty-six.

Maybe her youth is what makes her bold and friendly,
telling stories of Switzerland without being asked,
S leaning eagerly over the seat to the elderly woman she courts.

His youth makes him smile when he’d rather sigh.
Take risks and find adventure
instead of working through the night.
Play from the moment morning breaks,
behind hockey sticks and bladed skates.
When he holds the hand of his girl, B, time stands still and
the bottle pops its cork, but when time returns, she’s gone.

Maybe his youth seeks the same, like S, thirty-eight.

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