Frostwriting

Holding Hands on the Greyhound

by Wilda Morris

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I never knew the name
of the young man
who sat down next to me.

He did not probe my flesh,
kiss me or even talk much
but he held my hand
as Ohio rolled by.

For the first time,
I felt maybe,
just maybe. . . .


I have forgotten his face
but not the heat of his hand.

Wilda Morris is Workshop Chair of Poets and Patrons of Chicago. Her poems have appeared in a variety of print publications, including in The ChristianScience Monitor and The Kerf . The Rockford Writers’ Guild published her book, Szechwan Shrimp and Fortune Cookies: Poems from a Chinese Restaurant. She is a winner of the 2009 Prairie Poetry Award from College of DuPage. Her poetry blog is found at wildamorris.blogspot.com .

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Fiction

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Postcards