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He leaves his shoes on the doorstep. Size twelve and a half, wearing through the toes and curling with wrinkles of use. He stopped working at the orchard in November, but red Oklahoma mud still caulks the crevices and holes, stains the laces.
It’s not about what you told me,
but what I chose to believe.
Nothing feels worse than living
an imaginary dream.
And they occur so often and freely
whenever Satan creeps in.
By the time I breathe, and count to ten
it’s over and I have to start again.