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Midnight

My grandfather, still harbouring the illusion
that all is well with the world,
fills his countryside pipe
for the last time
before the advent of the helmets and bulldozers.

On the bulldozer's teeth
my grandfather's cloak gets hooked.

The bulldozer retreats a few yards,

empties its load,
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Friday, October 17, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: dreams
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