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Breadcrumb #104

February 16, 2016 by Bob Raymonda

KATIE PUKASH

You are fluent in the language of the deceased.
Carpeted coffins.
And you cry in your scotch every time you hear the word
father.
You smoke camels in your hotel room
and pay the hookers to leave.
You are fluent in the language of the deceased.

• • •

February 16, 2016 /Bob Raymonda
poetry, verse, blog, breadcrumb
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