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Whether you’re from east Jersey

or East Pakistan,

from the fjords of Norway

or the hot desert sands,

you know this person;

they sold you a car.

They go to your church

or you met in a bar.

You listen and wait

and you wait and you listen;

the point, the big finish

looks so small in the distance,

and still they plod on

with a few more details

why, they’re just getting started,

the wind’s in their sails.

You look at your watch

and think, surely by now—

whether you were a Girl Scout

or you grew up in Boys’ Town,

or hellhounds and she-wolves

brought you food in their mouths

you know this person

from some time before;

they saved you in ‘Nam,

you built huts for the Corps

and you know,

sure as that pistol you keep in the drawer,

in the end they will say,

to make a long story short.

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