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And just like that it's like over.  Duration:  a millisecond, if one bothers to measure.  Special thanks to Patrick for sharing.  We hope that now he feels better.

Sent from my iPhone

> On Apr 18, 2014, at 8:44 AM, Chanan Mittal <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> 
> It's time I shared a poem. - CR
> 
> ---
> 
> Just like that, I’m water. 
> Just like that, I’m the boat. 
> Just like that, I’m both things in the whole world 
> rocking. Sometimes sadness is just 
> what comes between the dancing. 
> 
>                                                         I’m wind- 
> 
> rattled. The wood’s splitting. The hinges are 
> 
> falling off. When the first bridge ends, 
> 
> just like that, I’m a flung open door.   
> 
> 
> 
> ---------- Forwarded message ----------
> 
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>                                  			   																		   																		
> 	
> April 18, 2014
>  
> Brokeheart: Just like that
>  
> Patrick Rosal
> When the bass drops on Bill Withers’
> Better Off Dead, it’s like 7 a.m. 
> and I confess I’m looking
> over my shoulder once or twice
> just to make sure no one in Brooklyn
> is peeking into my third-floor window
> to see me in pajamas I haven’t washed
> for three weeks before I slide
> from sink to stove in one long groove
> left foot first then back to the window side
> with my chin up and both fists clenched
> like two small sacks of stolen nickels
> and I can almost hear the silver
> hit the floor by the dozens
> when I let loose and sway a little back
> and just like that I’m a lizard grown
> two new good legs on a breeze
> -bent limb. I’m a grown-ass man
> with a three-day wish and two days to live.
> And just like that everyone knows
> my heart’s broke and no one is home.
> Just like that, I’m water.
> Just like that, I’m the boat.
> Just like that, I’m both things in the whole world
> rocking. Sometimes sadness is just
> what comes between the dancing. And bam!,
> my mother’s dead and, bam!, my brother’s
> children are laughing. Just like—ok, it’s true
> I can’t pop up from my knees so quick these days
> and no one ever said I could sing but
> tell me my body ain’t good enough
> for this. I’ll count the aches another time,
> one in each ankle, the sharp spike in my back,
> this mud-muscle throbbing in my going bones,
> I’m missing the six biggest screws
> to hold this blessed mess together. I’m wind-
> rattled. The wood’s splitting. The hinges are
> falling off. When the first bridge ends,
> just like that, I’m a flung open door.
> 
>  
>  
>   
>