| -for lucille clifton
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| I opened a bank account
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| when I was nine years old
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| I closed it when I was eighteen
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| I gave them every penny that I’d saved
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| and they gave my blood
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| and my urine
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| a number
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| now I’m sitting in this waiting room
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| playing with the toys
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| and I am here to exercise
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| my freedom of choice
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| I passed their handheld signs
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| went through their picket lines
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| they gathered when they saw me coming
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| they shouted when they saw me cross
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| I said why don’t you go home
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| just leave me alone
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| I’m just another woman lost
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| you are like fish in the water
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| who don’t know that they are wet
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| as far as I can tell
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| the world isn’t perfect yet
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| his bored eyes were obscene
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| on his denim thighs a magazine
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| I wish he’d never come here with me in fact I wish he’d never come near me I wish his shoulder
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| wasn’t touching mine
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| I am growing older
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| waiting in this line
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| some of lifes best lessons
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| are learned at the worst times
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| under the fierce flourescent
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| she offered her hand for me to hold
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| she offered stability and calm
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| and I was crushing her palm
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| through the pinch pull wincing
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| my smile unconvincing
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| on that sterile battlefield that sees
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| only casualties
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| never heros
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| my heart hit absolute zero
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| Lucille, your voice still sounds in me mine was a relatively easy tragedy
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| now the profile of our country
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| looks a little less hard nosed
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| but that picket line persisted
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| and that clinic’s since been closed
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| they keep pounding their fists on reality
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| hoping it will break
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| but I don’t think there’s a one of us leads a life free of mistakes |