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It’s disconcerting to speak of Aunt Alice
I don’t trust writing a poem because
acting the way I did 
she was naïve and slow
too easy for a boy to antagonize
as if I was jumping around 
running up the hill 
around the tree and rolling down 
and she’d be standing flat.
When I’d tease with something stupid
she’d believe. 
She deserved a nephew who was kind 
a kinder man than this poem writer.