It was middle June
during the duration of a month that was a wait for each day to come, during that summer when I would turn teen, when I was almost something— way past twelve and counting. It was the middle of day, mid-day heat halfway between cool and hot, a double-handed noonday stroke: the clock's count of twelve reminding me of what I was not. Still a multiple of two, three, four, six, I was a mere factoring
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Andromeda hosts today's Poetry Friday Roundup at A Wrung Sponge.