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I toe the curb along the road
with my boot. I’ve got time before
returning and for one more smoke; I’ve earned
it. She didn’t or wouldn’t like flowers or this all,
anyway. Seldom cried and wouldn’t be caught in
pink lipstick. They framed her lips in pink lipstick,
though. In her hospice cot, what a doll, not
wanting the pudding glopped on her gummy mouth.
Give her a long-stemmed martini, damnit. That would be
merciful. Or just. But the services offered pander to them,
the family, seeking tissues and well-lit off-street
parking. Like this. Different tributes paving the same path.
Cold. I can’t tell where the smoke ends
and my breath begins. I
better get back in it and out of this
solemn night.
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