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The Blind MasseurTo Christopher Woods's previous piece


An hour before dawn,
Wife still asleep
He leaves the house
With fishing gear
And a thermos of tea
Spiked with brandy.

He dreams of catfish
And a way out
Of a barren marriage.

The road to the lake
Appears at first light.
He sings halfheartedly
With the radio, sips tea.
Dressed in denim and flannel,
He doesn't feel like a man.
Even his rifle can't change this.

Past sunset, the catfish live.
Other than stars,
The only light comes
From a sheriff's car
Parked beside the lake.
Everything is still.

Sometimes, the entire world
Seems to wait for the coroner.

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