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The Novelist 

Standing wrapped in a thin blanket 
of white wet dirty snow, he stood 
smoking a cigarette the way he usually did. 
Out of the side of his mouth, with 
hands, slightly unsteady, portraying 
a man out of time anachronism 
boyhood lost persona. 
Once, after reading A Tale of Two Cities, 
he declared an affinity for Sidney Carton, the 
anti-hero who died a far, far, better death 
for the sake of love. However, it was the 
restless, smoking, late night wonderings 
through dark empty Paris streets 
for which he felt a familiar longing. 
That's how could be found on many a fitful 
summer late night, pacing the smooth 
wooden floors of our home. Always 
with the cigarette, usually a glass 
of whiskey, often spinning a crackly old vinyl 
"Dream of The Blue Turtles," preferring, 
Moon Over Bourbon Street, slow and mournful, 
even for Sting. He always seemed to be shaking 
his head slightly, even when he wasn't actually. 
Not that he was sad really, simply resigned 
to existing between the days. 
So, as the engine whined out that whirring 
followed by the clicking, it seemed entropy 
and Ice had finally defeated our old Chevrolet. 
He stood framed within the frosty whiteness 
of the frozen windshield. A subtly imposing figure 
in the long black overcoat, which seemed to 
bring him a minor joy 
in the few languid winter days that Texas let slip by. 
Dropping the tiny cigarette remains 
deliberately casually, warm 
breath, smoke like in blue-gray air, 
while gazing skyward he mumbled 
All that needed to be said, really, 
on the silent journey back into the warmth. 

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