R. H. McBride


A Game I Play

The church isn't allowed to sell pumpkins,
Those rebel-rousers with their shaved teeth
And copy-copy-copy-cat dogs,
I can tell the difference.
It's a game I play,
I've sucked enough of my own bloody knuckles
In front of the bar's spot-the-difference-won't-someone-talk-to-me game,
A pile of straws lined up on top the juke box,
Like steel beams welded up around me

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