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by Landon Charlebois


A sober stone,

a temporary pillow for a bleeding head.

A crag outside of the bar or a

friend’s apartment, a place for a sneaker to



Slick sober stone

rubbed smooth, pummeled by your thumb,

a faceless coin.

Two years hiding in your pocket, compacted



Is it hidden?

Even a companion might not know until it

breaks their tooth, buried in their bread,

Eating spaghetti together on a Tuesday night,

a bottle of wine for one.

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