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Mel Bosworth
Cliff
He sucks the nip, lips purple. Someone told me once it smells like
burning
plastic. Sniffing, I imagine a Barbie Doll on fire, then laugh. He
asks me what’s funny, exhaling toothless. I say I was admiring the
carpet. It’s not a lie. The wind off the river makes the tin walls
shake. I notice. He doesn’t. He passes me the nip. I take it. Tracks
above us go all the way to Mexico. When I ask why he doesn’t leave,
he doesn’t get angry. He tells me he lives here.
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