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Poem For the Woebegone

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Woebegone is such a wonderful word
I should put it in a poem
but the only bedraggled spectacle here
is made of spent sunflowers and dead
black-eyed-Susans. Woebegone makes me
think of a woman, tall and lean, face morose,
her slump a sign of obvious defeat, worried
yet resigned, surrounded by her children,
like a Dorthea Lange photograph of a migrant
mother on the way to California, a plain woman
whose name may have been Violet.

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