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Perfumed Envelopes In The Alley
Raud A. Kennedy |
Tin mailboxes line the gravel path,
their wood posts aged a silver gray.
The stones tickle my bare soles
as I look through my box
for the letter you'd said you sent.
But it's not there, and it's as if
I'm no longer there either,
just a shell standing in front
of an empty metal box.
Chipped teeth litter his face,
bruised lips smear his cheeks,
salty blood trickles from his nostrils.
But he still stands, hands clenched
as fists at his sides, knuckles cut,
as he looks down at his opponent
stretched out moaning in the sluice
running in the alley's gutter. His boss,
his wife, his father, his life.
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