"My, what a pretty lake of death you have..."
he squandered as the emeralds grew deep and dark.
Later on that week they laughed the ghosts away
from half-way point hotel beds
and the beach at Acadia was fine, just fine.
(There was no cork in the wine this time.)
Surely his uncle is missing out.
Currently reading:
"The Continual Condition" by Charles Bukowski.
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