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smell the woodpile
it’s rotten
a pungent licorice scent
mold over
home to bugs that don’t buzz

they took down his trophy
a bronze giant in the shape of
his father
it was perched on the side of the lake
with weather stains and bird shit
on the forehead
I worked to keep it clean
then gave up
eventually he took it down
without saying a word to me

now I treat a grey cat like it’s him
invite it to sit with me
to comfort him
hope your winter isn’t too cold