Angela Ball The Paste-On Mother

She found a family, a photo in which to paste
A likeness. Spent twenty years in it
While town shifted west, and further west,
Past the discount store, the trapdoor gum machine
Where she and a stepdaughter offered coins
To the god of prizes, past the iceless rink where the daughter
Did not skate, but danced, slowly, clasped by a raw boy, where
The paste-on mother pulled up
In a car afterwards called to see
Along with a scrap yard and the bones of accidents,
One not told from the other.

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