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grovel
February 18, 2011
there’s this sound.
it pops and crackles and
makes this restless hound
desert the ground.
the wafting of fumes from a familiar package is like
love.
four dollars and ninety-five cents of love.
I watch my waiter,
fumbling to retrieve a recorded message from
pocket packed with treats.
looking up, panting blindly
at my master, who holds my coveted prize
balled up in his burly hand.
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