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Back to the Porch
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Shorted The café is pressing down on us nakedly; we don't waver at the end; you tip the waitress; we leave. Getting in the car is our waking; the music is our lord; I'm alive at sixteen; you're asleep at fifty; the road is short. The only thing we talk about on the seamless ride home is the snifter full of delicious crabmeat placed between us.
Phil Rice / 2009 |