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CONCRETE MEAT PRESS
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e-chapbook 001 Michael Curran - page 6
Drunk and Driving
I drive along back streets.
It is hot. It is Spring. It is April.
I hold the wheel at the bottom, both hands.
Elbows on thighs, radio tuned, window down.
I feel a hole in the moulding of the steering wheel.
I check all the way round for other holes, but find none.
I cannot stop sweating.
It is Sunday.
I am thinking of excuses.
Visiting Time
The religious ones sit around him, surround him.
He’s already buried as they tease, get near it, smile.
I lean over, hold his hand— soft, with tiny scars.
I have to leave, have to smile too.
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