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Man Friday

To me you will always be Friday, because I met you on that day. I recall a line of shoe prints on a sawdust floor. How you crossed to where I sat, sleek as a parrot, on a stool in a Bristol bar. You touched my hand as I made the call. Then sheltered in our hired room, I tasted sweat, splashed on midnight skin.

Of course, I woke to find you hostage to the night. But the scent of sandalwood still lingered on the air, while down below, the slave ships weighed anchor in the bay.

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