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Lost in my Doolally with a special permit

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A garden of snafu behind a rusted latch
in the corridors of my mind’s doolally,
looking for Bigfoot with a torch,
and here’s the wrinkle—the torch is dead,
but I can still smell him: pine needles
and wet dog, something like a promise,
as the headboard thumps—
and me, in my johnny coat gown.

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