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ISSUE:  Summer 1981
My friends are taking
Their places at the bar.
Apparently self-absorbed,
posed for a painting.
Tonight the bougainvillea sheds
and you haven’t the heart
To tidy this jungle.
Your dogs drift through.
Every high pitched sound
Is a motorcyclist you once knew.

Every terrified stuntman
waits at the edge of your lawn.
At 29 you were full of whim,
Someone who wanted to hear good news.

We used to walk to Los Angeles
To the Capitol Records building.
In those days you relished
The sullen. Now it hurts more.


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