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Your bleeding hearts
‘At first I was afraid, I was petrified’,
sings a gloss-black, vinyl Gloria Gaynor.
Friday nights have a ritual all their own:
you pressing ABBA blue to creping eyelids.
Your perm, ringed by its aura of Harmony;
puffs of Panache to girder your confidence.
Pinching off another of your bleeding hearts,
I’m prepared to let you ‘go, walk out the door.’
Each week, watching you, readying to leave us –
tiny heart crushed by the Polos in your purse.
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