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Exeter - One of my husband's ceramics.
We are walking along the promenade
by the sea
in hazy September sun
absorbed in our ice creams
licking them smooth.
Excessively large scoops
perched on top of
small crisp sugar cones.
Cookies and cream - my husband's,
mine - fresh raspberry.
He swoops from behind me
a flap of a wing
in my ear
a scratch on my neck
my ice cream cone
gone
as if I never held it
flipped in the air
splattered on the promenade.
Six gulls descend
out of nowhere
screeching
snatching at the crushed crumbs
the whole icy dollop
in a beak
somewhere
out of sight.
All in a snap of a second.
The only evidence
the white paper napkin in my hand
that was wrapped around the cone.
And an aching cavern inside me.
Like someone stole my dancing shoes
before the party was over.
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