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Postmodern Village
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How Can I Not Get Upset When Someone Dies?
by Francine DuBois

i met a man who smelled like Kafka,
of cabbage, blood, and wet wool.
he wore a grey trenchcoat
(of course it was grey)
and read the New York Times
as we rode in the elevator together.
he handed me his business card as he
left. he was an insurance salesman.

that night, i tossed in bed and took
six showers. i could not get warm,
and i felt his sticky grey aura
cling to me like tuberculosis.

how appropriate, how appropriate
that the next day his name would
appear in the obituaries of the paper
i had watched him read the day before.

Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's Version -- Inspiration
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