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Sundays

Another swing and a miss.
Sitting here, on the sunny carpet under my window
and reading Bukowski aloud
Poems about bars and women and
women in bars and bad jobs.
Some times you hear a crack, and the bat breaks.
And that poem sends you over the outfield wall
Into the ourstreched glove of some lucky kid.
And your audience goes wild.
but Sometimes, its the end of the inning
3 on base and a full count.
4 lines left to go
and
Ol’ Buk hits a fly ball to left field.
He IS getting old,
But Hank Chinaski can still punch you in the nose
now and again.

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