“The world is a stew,” he said. “it's all a boneyard,” he said. There for the picking. And now, the pot itself is melting. The stew is a study in oxidation and rust. The first of its kind. The last of its kind. “The world is a stew,” he said. Get a fork.
And what will we do after we’re done wiping our chins?
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Go back for more!
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I really like this and I’m going to go off and share it. . . .
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Hey, Thanks J!
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Reblogged this on The Sand County and commented:
This poem really nails something. It’s like JCC was swinging and connected with the sweet spot of his bat.
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