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October 20, 2009

Bullet, she said,

and I ran to
the computer faster than one
of those speeding things to prove

once and for all

that I was right and
she was wrong,
marking this day forever on
my calendar of critical events –

births and deaths,
marriages and divorces,
hook ups and break ups,
really good steaks –

and I shouted from
the far side
of the house,

where geese think they are World War I
flying aces rather than
a scrumptious meal
for eight over holiday
dressing: It’s Bullitt, you stupid cow!

Steve McQueen would never let me
down, not in 1968 and not now…
You said Bullet!

I could not contain
my sheer joy and
I rubbed it in her face
like a nice seasoning on a
roast. She simply

flipped the page in her catalog,
and sighed: That’s what I said.

I couldn’t argue.

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