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whittled down lies

you sit upon your whittling stump,

carving puppies and faces and stars

and selling them to children 

for two bucks a pop.

you carve and you carve until

swirls of wood cover the floor,

like a blanket that just isn't soft.

one by one, the children trickle out,

and by 7:00, the store is empty.

you put away your stool,

whispering quietly of the youth 

that had visited today

and you shut out the lights

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