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POEM: Pine Oil

My hands smell of pine oil.
What a powerful soap.
It may not make me clean,
but it shot me back in time.

— a chrononaut blown out the locks
all through the residue of a cleanser.

Racked back to a mid-morning heart attack
when I was washed back in a trial by flak.
One fudged together with a pile of facts
to make quite the story.

I never read it.
but played my part.

All the pain and none of the wisdom
— just the opposite of what a reader seeks.


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