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Curiosity Doesn’t Always Sneak Around Killing Cats
Curiosity Doesn’t Always Sneak Around Killing Cats
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On Friday nights
she puts on Ariats,
clouds of smoke,
clanking shot glasses.
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She prefers to recline in a dryer chair,
pink lemonade.
At the gas station
practicing checkers,
a pitcher of sun tea. Between lips–
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bedsheets hung out to dry
through a tiny hole in a
sturdy backyard fence. A brick
church, polished pews,
she tilts her head,
listens–
               silence.
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