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The west Kansas bowl of dirt is a dry spoonful.
Cornmash whiskey rusted out the bathtubs while mama stitched up the holes in our shirts.
I cried beside the radio waves listening to negro blues.
Broke down without reason for the city Pops left.
I could hear for miles along the open plain a whistle from the postal train & longed for your letter.

I begged to see the turns & loops of your pen.
I didn't see the stain of tears until the end. 

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