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Nov 2014

A graveyard of empty whiskey bottles,
curled, browned labels coated with dust.

A farmer drank in this dirt basement, alone,
wind chapped face illuminated by a kerosene lantern,
swollen fingers forever  clutching the
glass neck of his half drained bottles.

I drink ***** in the renovated kitchen,
lit by dimmed lights, gentle shadows
dancing across the glossy hardwood floor.
I look out at the dark bodies of trees
swaying, uneasy in the night breeze.

Sometime after midnight,
the farmer’s ghost
stumbles up the creaking staircase behind me,
to our bed.
Jonny Bolduc
Written by
Jonny Bolduc  Halifax
   Joe Bradley and Juneau
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