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I live for these
small hours

just me
and the cat,
hot coffee
and a pack
of smokes

the only sounds
the tick-tock
of the clock,
the hum
of the fridge
and the grumble
of the furnace
firing up

a long ash
dangles
from the tip
of my cigarette
as I recall
the soothing
burn
of whiskey

the company
of damaged
women
and spent
old men

each a book
of poems

waiting
to be
written

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