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Jeff Jensen |
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FOR EDWARD SMITH At 3AM the nearly bare partially lit, interstate is lonely enough to recall that like O'Hara you eluded me then died tragically. On the hospital bed I imagine the dancer in you danced a sorrowful dance before your Hereafter. Released you upset a smoother ending, a sort of last argument on behalf of complexity, whatever memory brings. Ed, we never discussed my commute. It sucks. Who wouldn't prefer to heat the sheets at home dreaming off the waking hours? For 13 years… traveling to this warehouse, where I pull packages from a squealing belt and arrange them for overworked, despondent drivers who still manage a good-hearted rib for the road. |