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John Fenlon Hogan 





      Lead, or the Other Side  



You contemplate the ergonomics of squeezing

that backpack through a needle’s eye.


You stuff entire haystacks, non-perishable

food items, the nuclear power plant


at which you’ve worshipped ever since

the sun went dry, the dissatisfaction


you inherited when your folks died.

Five square inches remain.


The plenary indulgence you earned

silently carrying that cross on your back.


The can of green beans that could save

you from starving on eternity. You think


God doesn’t own a can opener?

You think this isn’t a monopoly?










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