Gungs

By J.D. Nelson

38th & Ringsby.

“Relax,” I said, “this is only a dream.”

“Don’t tell me to relax,” I said.

I stole a coat and warmed right up.

I found myself in a ditch,
eating rabbit and belching.

I was number one-oh-one, or something.

“The burgers are done, you guys,” I said.

Something about the World Series,
trying to outrun buffalo.

I’d forgotten to rewind my finger.

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