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Morning Without School

A stranger’s daughter waits in the alley, a hat in her hands.
Our calico cat stares at her from his fence post perch. It starts
to rain, lightly. When a blue truck arrives, she enters without words.

The milk stinks of grass, so I send my husband to the store, black
umbrella and all. The children cling to my legs like pants.
I hear them better than my own thoughts.

When the rain stops, I send them screeching into the mud.

Caitlin Thomson has writing in numerous anthologies and literary journals including "The Penn Review," "The Moth," "Barrow Street," "Wraparound South," and "Radar Poetry." You can learn more about her writing at

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