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I fished out a pair 
of your underpants  
from behind the washer.  
A spider clung to the band.  
I set him free.  What to do 
about your undies?  
Call you?  No.  
We aren’t speaking.  
I could make a bonfire, 
eat Smores and 
toss them in.  
A purging.  After 
I throw them in 
the kitchen trash can, 
I await the trash collectors.
A tiny bit of me wishes 
I had kept them.  
	A souvenir.  
	And a warning.

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