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It became clear to him,
after it became clear to him
no god was going to come down
from the sky and lift
the baler off his father’s chest,
that he had better start running.

He started running
down the road to the diner
his father had pointed out
as they rumbled past,
promising pie.

He knew the sort of men
he would find at the counter,
their flannel shirts crossed
with suspenders, knew the way
they would swivel towards him
when he burst in,
knew the looks they would give him
while waiting for him to draw
a big enough breath
to say what he had
to say to them
to make them follow.
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