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Article Title

Story Problems

Abstract

Every Sunday the same story, supper

of pot roast and potatoes, sweaty pitchers

of sweet tea, fruit pies or pudding or ice cream.

After she cleared the food away, our mother

worked at the kitchen sink in her lovely

apron, the one with cherry blossoms

and ruffles, her heavy rubber gloves

a squeak as she sponged the tile counters.

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