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LEAVES
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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