by George Perreault
Most folks had one, growing up, neighbor town
where mutants congregated, not just some odd
family here and there – the water, maybe it was
the water, or the pool got muddy, not so much
intermingling, those folks, so every street was
its own story, maybe granddad gone ripe in his
rocker, no one checking see if he still breathed
or that guy what shot a momma bear, brought the
spring cubs home for his wife to nurse, their baby
shifting then to solid foods, kind of town no one
would ask why’d you shoot that creature, intentions
with them young – past nor future much concern,
maybe the fall lay in some wood, winter, like
any long sleep, another warm hole in the ground.
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