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Postmodern Village
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I Lost a Horizon Today
by Francine DuBois

No one names their kids after fabrics anymore;
I long for the days when Chiffon and Tafetta,
The Armstrongs' children, would walk my purchases
Out to the car, complement me on its neatness,
And tell me that I simply must drop in on their parents
For dinner someday.

And yet, as I pile my own groceries into my 1984 hatchback,
I wonder if there ever was such a time, or if I just have
My memories all scrambled like Aunt Minnie's Jello Surprise.
Did I ever attend a potluck dinner; did Gram ever teach me
How to knit; did I ever have an uncle who would toss me in the air?
How much of this is just fantasy, a television-induced hallucination
Designed to keep me occupied between commercial breaks?

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
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