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Beer Pooh

8 April 2012 One Comment

After he had gathered all the bear pooh, he carried the stinking sacks and left them by the doors of the funhouse. It was near morning and the fields were wet and he thought of Henry and the shotgun, the tattered target behind his head and he sank in the grass, lay stock still near the prize pigs and drank a swig of bourbon, listened to the tiny rolling thunder of the skee balls and the wallops of the drunken clowns in their trailers.

The mastodon rabbits stirred in their cages and slept on blue ribbons. The brown bears paced around their platforms, rusted chains dragging behind and he remembered the heavy rain, the sleet pouring down behind him and he threw his childhood under his arm, kept it there for good measure; the catcalls of ancestors and roving men, the long walks on the rails and the stirrings of old love.

Kaffee at Katmandu

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