November Spacker

By | 1 June 2013

My sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Drashal,
would write NOVEMBER on the board,

and read poems about death.

Our trees
finally drop parasite leaves, let them fall

and blow away. If only this town
would do that. Instead it burps

up a new Wal Mart. It’s November
at last, dreary. Thanksgiving,

death on the table, everyone
ready to dig in.

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