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I’m so in love

with the idea

that there is a dog in your house

lapping coffee from a bowl

that you are someone I could know

share a house with, even


the sound of steam & a memory

of giant red cups, the dark

bitter pizza hut that is my “nighthawks,”

the sight of three women

sniffing each other’s hair

to place a compliment—these

are the detritus of a life, well, lived


and yes we all have our positions on the stop

and we all have a dying grandmother

and we’re all drinking the most barely tolerable

liquor they will serve us


and we are all here, at the ragged edge of living

lit by photos of dogs drinking, somewhere.

 Max Cohen

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