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Jukebox Some alternative cowboy yodels old black and white songs about Heaven and rainstorms and big, shaky trucks rolling home-- and I can feel heat hiding in the gravel for my bare feet. I can taste her lipstick and scrambled eggs mixed with the weight of this mobile home. Our boy's flannel shirts all look the same, all similar shades of blue-- just like his eyes in different dims of shadow, coping with what little piece of light they are given. I would cope too, given that same piece of light. I'd bring it home, blow it into the back of my dark throat, sit and wait for the room to spin. Maybe then I could sing for sunshine, like the days when Dad played guitar on the porch and I knew what to dance. |
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