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Poetry of Issue 9: In the morning hours

In the morning hours

After the toasting of

the new year, we’re in

The Lark, having one

for our late friend Glenn

former owner of the bar.

The guy next to me says,

“Don’t I know you?”

“Harry?” I say.

“And you are?”

“Al.”

“Right. How you doing?”

“I’m living.”

“I hear that.”

Our only previous social

interaction as pallbearers

in killed-in-horrific car accident,

former Lark owner, Glenn’s

funeral. The conversation goes

precipitously downhill

from there. Where else

could it go?

Alan Catlin

Home Planet News