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Foxy John’s
Beer Wine Good Food
Low Prices
Scribbled notes on a yellow pad, a pipe
Of Holland House, coffee, another cup
The old MG stood loyally outside
The San Diego night smelled of the sea
Damp and cool out beyond the fluorescents
And at dawn, between the night shift and class
More coffee, more tobacco, weary eyes
Ill-focused on Henry at Canossa
And the ocean tides and the morning fogs
Turning the seasons marked shifts and studies.
How
curious never to have met John
And
so to learn whether he was foxy
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