"it was my secret"

Sallied home to sanctuary,

a secret abode,

coffee moving

in the air like a flag.

Finger prints worn

from handling

dirty change,

and head hung,

on puppet string,

tethered taut by our

morning alarm.

And from sanctuary

we sortie, an assault

on the working day,

secrets pinned

to our pinafores

on a broach

with our names.

And venture:

“life moves by like a flash”,

an electron drift of days.

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