A Poem for Brian

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he’s chasing his tail

walking so close as to flat tire the heel of your loafers

he’s number 37154 of an infinite number of people

who aren’t looking into your eyes,

but at the reflection of themselves in your glasses

it’s liking them liking you that tries hot coals

people like him belong in a cupboard with dusty trophies

in a dark garage

people like you belong on wake boards

conquering the lake

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