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David Subacchi

He brought us here

To a cracked plaster bar

In a nowhere village

We kept our coats on

As Ann poured beer

From the jug


He said this was real

He liked the way Ann

Kept the men in order

We exchanged glances

Lit cigarettes, blew smoke

At the ceiling


Stumbling into the night

Several hours later

Cold air snatched

At our throats

Behind us the rattle

Of Ann bolting the door


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