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“Hurry Up”

People, black and white, all shapes and sizes, embark in and out — lunging, wanting to permeate perfectly amidst the river’s vapors or squall. Young people learn the joys of gregariousness. Money handlers stand at the apex. In their pertinent hands they see criminals locked up, the keys secure, they see babies and toddlers sleeping tight, their little minds spinning around in celestial orbit serene as a dog barks outside in the snowy, windy night. His paw tracks trace his choices, like dynamite fire under the badminton net. He knows that badminton net, and he does his duty, and buries it in the snow, his owner angrily taking a drag of his cig, sizing up his tool shed, indifferent to the dog: “Sandy!” he calls. “Hurry up, it’s cold!”

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