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December 26, 2015
The bench, my own
just for tonight.
Warm wooded slats,
the soul, to excite.
Free from the draught
of winter’s bite,
and wind blown leaves,
and doggy shite.
The bench, my own
til morning light.
The sky my ceiling,
twinkling bright.
No mortgage plan.
No rent arrears.
My shower – rain water,
hiding tears.
The bench, my own;
I slept well last night.
And awoke with new hope;
the aroma right.
Near my arm, a Big Mac:
I knew there was a god.
And a can of beer tied with tinsel
left by some kindly sod.
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