My flimsy veteran's hat and a sign that reads
anything helps: it only gives me a beer,
a sandwich and a quarter left. I head over to
my fountain. It is mine because it is a wishing
one, and I am a wishing one. I want bombs
to stop when I hear the garbage truck.
I want lightning to be magnificent, not
frightening. I want to have another beer
before I am sober enough for memories
to eat me up, bite by bite.
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