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Consolation Prize 

Your dead friend’s koozie
rests on the dashboard,

sliding while you’re driving,
still when you’re in park.

The life of a koozie
is secret to me.

I don’t know the sun’s heat
static in my neoprene body,

the soft reach of dust
hugging the vinyl contour,

deflation or wet fullness
contingent on a whim,

regardless of phase,
always more matter than space.

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