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(in Florida, lightning capital of the world)
who lived in his garage in the suburbs,
at least who was nearly always seen there
shirtless, sitting on a case of Budweiser,
hanging his head between tattoed arms
balanced on jeans busted at the knees
was standing on his driveway tonight
in the afterdusk, enflaming a cigarette
that was nearly all I could see of him;
a cheek edge, a red glow like a taillight
through steaming summer rain
was gazing at the silence as dry lightning
traded sword swipes in clouds like anvils.
“Ain’t it something?” I said from the car door,
across the wilted wedge of grass we shared.
The deaf response flashed beyond us.
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