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Little Thumbs Little Thumbs our orange Twitter-bird absurdly obsessed with having the last word—possessed at dawn by “I should have said” words
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Four Lines my brave brave Mac loves all water but a bath—yet while I bathe he stands sentry just behind the door poised to fight killer soap
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Four Lines Mackie was a pup alone tossed beside the river—on seeing my car he scratched at the door then climbed in to sleep on my lap
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Mac is an extra large Lab who horizontal spreads a yard all ways— imagine a man-sized hallway, a dog, and painstaking steps through
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out secondhand shopping we found a half-off goodwill then final day estate sale—we went home well pleased with just-right finds and dear friends
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the wind shook the trees by their leaves till the woods echoed with the roar— a dry, cry of friction so low it vibrated through my heels
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I strain my ears for the quiet sounds that travel light on the fall wind like the cheep of a roosting bird half-muffled by falling leaves
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it’s November and an hour past sunrise but clouds roost overhead grey impenetrable soft-edged reluctant I switch on my lamps
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November is a homeless month weather neither fall nor winter endlessly it wanders bitter cloaked in grey
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of what does this group of artists speak under these fluorescent lights gathered round those six white plastic tables while wielding their tools oh Dublin trips and stocking slips and why your brush...
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