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Station Mistress by Alma Twerski

ROWS of PIERCED ROSES on the pedestal, hapless owls on the staircase, and then she by the entrance. Many shrugged by while others photographed with their indecent eyes. Trains could not derail if the veil was lifted. And so, each day of the station went by. Older than themselves men sat in the crumpled station corners. Their whiskers drooped by.
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