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Drinking Man Out on the edge of the highway, under the mailbox, the mourning dove is hobbling, something important broken. Through the kitchen window, my father sees three boys poking at her with sticks, slams his cup on the counter, runs with his fury down the drive stop it goddamn you sick punks should be ashamed, sick punks, scoops the dove into the cradle of his big hands, speaks comfort to her in coo-tones, carries her out to the back and lays her tenderly on the lawn Jesus Christ almighty. Digs around for a sharp enough rock. Mom and I stand at the window leave him alone as he raises his arm twice and can’t bring it down, then on the third try crushes the dove’s toy skull don’t say anything to him, comes in to wash his hands, and drinks his coffee. Nature doesn’t care, he finally mutters. Mom and I throw in a load of whites, hang out a load of colors. She pinches the back of my neck with a clothespin, says The next time you think your old man is a bastard, better remember this morning. 49 ...

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