tyson's hand holds the railing
red cedar skin glowing white at the knuckles
the hand shakes cold
he steals the cigarettes from behind his ear
bites the filter, holding it there
reaches into his pocket for his black bic
i ask what his father would say
he laughs like rain falling by chance through
the thinnest crack in your car window
"i've never wanted to run a marathon"
he stares at the wake of the boat
our terrified silver whale towed half dead
by eight iron hooks at the ends of thick ropes
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