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No Fresh Air

Ana Rosenthal

Choppy brown hair falls over his eyes,

Like a curtain blocking out the world,

Like he likes it.

Hand-me-down clothes, muted colors,

Like he likes it.

He attracts no attention,

Just the way he likes it.

He forces his thin, shaky legs

To feel like boulders

As he takes a step forward

And breathes in the fresh air.

The air of his new life.

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