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It's past 3,
on the back porch,
listening to crickets and the low hum of the interstate
five blocks east, headed out of town.

It's been hours
since she went to sleep,
inside, on the couch,
curled up with your sweatshirt.

It's finally cooling off,
long past sunset, Mid-July
the neighbor's air conditioner starts and stops
like clockwork, every twenty minutes.

It's almost time,
but first, one last smoke,
one more cloud to exhale, watch hang
in the damp air

then
disappear.

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