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Blue Laws

In my town blue laws still cover everything,
so I take a walk out to the end of nowhere,
I pass the owner of a black Ford with a hood up
but he doesn't answer when I speak to him.
I pass a man leashed to a little white dog.
It's hard to tell which of them is wheezing,
so I say hello, but there is no answer. So,

I go down the hill where the magnolia blossoms,
white stars like a gunfight at sea, too far away
to hear, but explosions clear enough, the gods
trumpeting and chest-beating as is their way.
By now my arms are working up to a march,
lifting and falling, you can almost hear
Sousa come around the corner, the innocents

turning their heads, tired doves fluting away.
I'd like to enter a bar and put my fist down
around an iced draft beer, to protest the words
a blonde slim as a coat hanger spits freely.
I'd like to stay there into the blistered dusk,
maybe some fries, the door letting in exhaust.
Then I'd walk home, knowing you were there.

I'd really like that.

Dave Smith

Five Points

Vol. 18, No. 1

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