The defeats you hand yourself

It’s a heady mix

That drips from this dog’s chin,

And it growls your way

The way you

Thought only

Those blue

Sunday nights

Could.

It’s 65 degrees

Out with a decent

Kicking wind

But they’ve Promised 1 to 3

Inches of snow tomorrow

And you reckon

It may be time

To invest in a

Racehorse or a

Broadsword

Or an old-school

Reel-to-reel

Tape recorder

The same make and model

As the one

Nixon

Had stashed in

The drop ceiling.

Zounds I’m haunted tonight,

Haunted enough to wish I drank,

Haunted and hunted

And hated like No Mas duran

Coming home from New Orleans

One year removed From triumph.

We are all one year removed from triumph.

I hit the streets

Looking for a

Burger joint

That serves a Tangy slaw.

At times like this

Nothing else will do

And no one else

Would care.

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