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First draft. Somebody read me, please. |
| A construction crew found my jacket Decaying in Bell Park. I thought it was buried, thought she Was buried deep enough, the dirt, mud Swelling above them for what seemed like A mile. A curious find, the reporter Said, a letterman jacket, Red stains on the front, covered By a few feet of dirt. She would be Found soon, the jacket’s death-mate, Uncovered only several yards away. They will see her grey skin peeling Back away from bone like birch bark. They will lift her gently out, several Men will cradle her like a baby. They will soon decipher the worn Name on the jacket, and come here To find me, but I will not be here. I will be on the bridge Where we met after the game. I will stand on the railing, my arms Prostrate, and I will stare Into the black of the water. |