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34 what lets you win Tonight your calm is all potential fist. He wants to make you hit him first, but when beer soaks your shirt, you shoot and two balls kiss then drift. You’ve got his wife. What lets you win is slop, not plan, but who can tell? Someone yells I was robbed and drops a cue, but you just want to drink enough to sleep. No fun to fight with him, and you’re no thief. But who can tell? Outside, the November sky spits white buckshot in your face. It’s not too late to change your mind, but you’re the wedge that splits by depth, by force, and not by choice. You’d wait, except in this you’re just a tool, a thing. She takes off her dress, she takes off her ring. ...

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