Here, bachelors dream of names for their future sons.
Wistful daughters wish through windows for those bachelors
to turn them to mothers.
There, a boy watches from behind smoke curling out under his hat.
These are those cold months.
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This was going to be the last stanza of a larger four-stanza piece, but I realized I was only writing the rest of the poem to put this at the end. I decided to cut out everything else and just use this as the whole piece. Yes the first line is not capitalized. Use your imagination for an intro. Hope you enjoyed.



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