The old man slept

through the jangling



gnawed his dreams

after each swallow of wine

pissed into the world.

He sleeps

the barn tremors its disgust

for his trespassing

for the rudeness of the man.

He sleeps curled into a fetus

swimming, drowning

his dreams  of bouncing balls,

catcher mitts and words

godawful words.

Batwing whispers reach

through his liquored fuddle

long enough to bid

him farewell.

The barn settles once again

glad to be rid of the stranger

no one knew.


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