Once there was a man who worked the graveyard shift.
His days were really nights and vice versa. In the day
he'd sweat out whiskey from the drawn-curtain evenings
and it would pool in his armpits like unanswered
questions. He lived by a river that had dried
the previous summer and all the cranes had fled en masse.
He worked to pay the rent on this house by the river
that was close to his job. Once, he stepped into the river bed
under the noon Georgia sun that hits like an ACME anvil
one evening and wedged his hairy toes into the clay and did
not miss the water.
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