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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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