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The Poet at Seven

MAY 2012: POETRY by Brett Foster The tweeny daughter torments the younger brother, who stands impassively, elbows on the table. He fiddles with a just cut apple and tugs at his pants. Bored, madly involved. Fidgeting, in a word. "Are you going to the movies?" she says. "Then why are you picking your seat?" Pause. Kitchen laughter (we're all guilty) sears and embarrasses as it will at that age. Yet he readily replies: "Seeds, Avery, I'm picking seeds." And so…
Brett Foster
May 1, 2012