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I walk clutching a bible in my hand, god in the other.

The park dogs sniff the smell of god, while the old men like to look at my bible.

They plead I swirl and flip my hair for them.

I don’t ask why. I swirl and run before I hear their frail small gasps.

Old gangsters that now look like turtles,

block my way home. Their slow shifts impede my walking straight.

I try to act childlike. They cannot linger on my clothes or hair or bible.

Still, I want the burned leather to show conspicuously,

like the sleeves of skin on their dead fingers and lips.

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