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A pack of crayons,
waxy and bright.
That night I sat 
at a white porcelain table,
with my feet grazing the floor.
I wondered,
what more could one want;
not knowing.
Snow would soon blanket 
a sullen landscape,
where the dead were lying in state.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust. 
As Grandpa's Olds Eighty-Eight 
turned to rust, 
by a pink flamingo
in a one car garage.