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A small girl was lost inside a deep well.

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Someone swam the English Channel. Roosters pecked at our boots and everyone was afraid of airplanes. A woman named her baby Alan Ladd, but hired girls drank bottles of Moxie with aspirin inside hoping for an abortion.

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For dinner we ate Welsh rabbit on saltines and cupfuls of junket. When you squeezed the red spot on the white bag the oleomargarine turned yellow. Every night after closing Mr. LaFrance shot rats in the kitchen of the Hartford Diner. In bed my dreams were like bags of bees. Once I saw a bomb hanging from a cement wall.

I heard singing on the radio about Halo shampoo and played yellow and blue records. Peeled tinfoil from our gum wrappers. Kept it in a big ball. And Mr. Manning kept the same fried egg on his stove for weeks. Back then no one knew if vanilla was a color. Back then Mr. Steinbach drank cases and cases of beer. He just wanted to live like an American, he said. And at night when old furniture listens to music, when there are no rainbows and all waters are black, when cats fight and anyone can hide in the spaces behind the heart, girls could smell his cigarette smoke deep in the sumacs.

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They drank coffee Cokes and made lonely visits to the mirror when he drove by. Yes, yes, it was just like that. His sex was as sweet as bubble gum.

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Life was salt pork, no milk gravy. The gas station attendant is closing up for the night. The register cashed out. Tires rolled inside. Pumps locked up. His khaki uniform is stained with oil and gas, his fingernails black. This man who looks like John Garfield is turning off the lights and locking the door. She wants enough gas to get home or to get to work in the morning or she came to pick him up after work.

She is walking toward him with quick steps. His broad back to her as he locks the door, he sees her reflection in the glass and the headlights of a car driving by. A few maples are rustling their dark leaves beside the station, papers blowing down the street. Behind the station on a hill covered with pine trees a dog is barking.

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The sky is gray and blue and black. Large rain clouds move slowly by. It is The town is closed for the night. Tomorrow by six the town will open again. Cars and people everywhere. Wet streets. By then someone will have found the bodies lying in the station yard. This is where their story begins. The war is over. Deer are licking their wounds.

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Pigeons no longer hide on the ledge. Fear has been drained from the trees. We are drinking vodka in tall blue glasses.

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Men are vaccinated against love. The fingernails of women have grown back. The soldiers all have chocolate behinds. Each pint of milk has a new red cap. Silk dresses fall apart like cobwebs. We meet in parlors once a month to discuss poetry.

He has work forthcoming in Boston Review. Past Issues Hartford, Vermont The gas station attendant is closing up for the night. This man who looks like John Garfield is turning off the lights and locking the door when a woman with high heels and red hair Rita Hayworth? Even teddy bears are running away with cupcakes in their hands.

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