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     Ian Hall


wipe their asses

with the ads


in titty magazines. They are reminded

of what their good for


nothing fathers gave them

when the fine print


reads a hemorrhoid. Up off

the porta-john, they look down


at the stew that’s left

for flies. The night


is a slow-cooker. They return

to their black post


and tasks that are seldom

more than irksome. Almost bovine,


mining equipment grazes

the strip-job fog.


By the foreman’s trailer

on dual sawhorses


plans were laid

to level something. Come morning,


once their shift

has ended, they’ll ghost out


onto the county road

half addled


and wrap their cars around power poles

like a wedding ring.

Ian Hall was born & reared in Eastern Kentucky. His work is featured in Narrative, The Journal, Mississippi Review, and The Southeast Review, among others.

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