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Dead Poets


by Gary Percesepe


The world is ugly
And the people are sad
WALLACE STEVENS


The night was filled with voices and signals. Roads not taken reappeared. Driving past the anniversary of my death I passed a chipmunk taking a dump in tall fescue by the side of the road. This wasn't morning, it was a dream of morning, I thought, slapping my forehead. Dogs to decades, my half-life's as crumbling infrastructure to her! Breakfast was wild, she later observed, R rated thanks to the neighbor who ankled over. It's only yesterday but already seems to be the middle of next week. I remembered the neighbor. She lost her husband during the divorce. It was cold in the big house. Pipes blinked open and poured out gravy. Great, I thought, the rest is gravy. Basement life seemed to suit the neighbor. You're a gleam of sun on fresh snow, I wanted to say. Sawdust piled up around my best intentions. Night found Socrates buzzed but not drunk, I recalled from the Symposium, alone under the ponderous stars. His head splintered by a thousand thoughts. 

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