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I saw a man caress his father’s fate
in a bar last week where raccoons did roam
freely on fences while my wife did gloam
about how men consume before they sate.
I don’t know, I saw him almost fall down,
a glass pint in hand with too much beer foam,
clearly poured in haste, the celestial dome
overhead like palms, humid and brown.
The pool table clicked out measured time passed.
In concentrated bursts geometers
tabled day jobs, reset odometers,
relaxed and recharged and fully half-assed.
The dread chased the joy as whiskey chased fear,
and for three dollars, he chased that with beer.

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