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Poetry
Mouse Lungs
Steve Lapinsky
She was a mousy thing,
part granola and part refined sugar,
sweet like a breakfast snack
everyone wanted
after their hangovers.
She hung out with others
who smoked pot and
made fun of her small lungs.
They felt for her, though
the way one feels
for a rodent stuck
in a glue trap.
The wimper
from under a pallet of flour,
in some bakery,
early morning.
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