Sitting on the corner of an overturned bucket, the pipe gets passed full of domestic, dried tobacco. Children race the dogs, ahjumma insists on her pork, and the fire's stoking beneath a full moon. They're laughing and prancing to folk music as the home-brewed wine keeps me warm.
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Author:
coracaodacripta (
Offline) - Published: June 29th, 2024 01:22
- Comment from author about the poem: Holiday
- Category: Short story
- Views: 0
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