Tuesday, November 22, 2016

8885. MR. FIORE

I've bumped up your icicles to the
front of the sled  - we've got to 
do something different, I thought.
It's Winter again and the windows
stay closed. Are there any men
left in Siberia?
A cavalcade of carolers can be
shot for less  -  the chain-link 
fence running along the gas 
station, the form of some deer 
being barely made out. The 
next morning, same roadway, 
different day, there it is on 
the side of the road. Dead 
as can be. Poor me. 
Poor Mr. Fiore.
He hit the deer and set it
free; well, I suppose the
optimist would say that. 
Vale of tears, and place 
of woe. But then again, 
what's a dumb deer know?
Poor me. Poor it, and
Poor Mr. Fiore too.

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