The corner store is on the corner,
and I walk there almost every day,
though halfway I speed my stride
because of the garden gnome on the lawn.
I know he can't hurt me,
and I know that he's not real,
but there's something about the way his eyes
follow me
that unsettles my stomach.
I swear he's right behind me,
and I can feel his breath.
It smells like grass clippings
and dead leaves
and sin.
Three days ago I took the rake
from the bushes nearby
and sneaked to the garden
silently, and silently
placed the rake in front of him.
Now he's in jail.
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