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The Girl I Would Have Married

The girl I would have married

had we met

is on the other side of the street,

a walking blur

I only notice for a second.


And her hair is a shade of blonde

or maybe brown I can’t recall,

nor anything about the jacket

she’d been wearing nor the boots,

only that for some silly unknown reason

we would have married had we met,


maybe at the bookshop

where I would have bumped her arm,

said sorry for my clumsiness,

which caused her to drop her classics

and a dictionary too;


or it may have been at a party,

hosted by a mutual

friend,

finding that we shared

a favourite song,

or that we’re social

democrats,

or that neither of us

can stand

the sight of blood;


then again, it may have been something

random,

her seated in the row

just ahead,

in a theatre

with a paltry slope,

her failure to remove the hat

that blocked my view,

my gathering the brazen courage

to tap her shoulder,

whisper into her ear

that I’m unable to see a thing.




Andreas Gripp



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