The Gelded Son of Old Bob Bowers Out of Once Double

Editor back-issues, poetry

I’ve miles to go but I have no pony.My hair is braided into a donkey whip. Flies buzz around your sweet tongue, honey.I see you lying in a squeaky dry ditch. Do you taste iron between your teeth?Feel your lousy hair lice crawling creep? You’re home now waiting for a stall with heat.(She bought you baggy pants dangling to your feet) You’re 62, slow…

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