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The Furnace

Tags: musings

The furnace is hot but my soul is cold. And the bones of my spoken words are buried in tomes. Yellowed by time and cigarette smoke. Never to be read or purchased on new's stands. But ain't life great, when one can watch Homer Simpson and belch Bud Lite? Dipping chicken wings in homemade sins.  

Now the leaves on my stone have turned to mulch, and a robin has laid a nest egg. But I have an RR and a transfer to Hoboken, where the furnace is now natural gas.

But my soul has grown mold and needs a spit shine, before it lifts off to parts unknown. As I wait for the Jetsons. 





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