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Our Fathers' Commandment
by Richard Fein
I was the Indian or maybe the cowboy.
The new Firestone tires were stacked like mountains.
The aisles stretched like paths in a desert
and everywhere was the smell of rubber.
Both our dads were by the store counter,
while I held my newfound friend's pistol.
The battle was bloody.
We both died many times,
and the stench of phantom gun smoke
overwhelmed the redolence of rubber.
Then the big glass door opened
and another boy came in with his dad.
But his hands were like claws.
I never saw such hands;
awe and panic flashed across my friend's face.
Then from both our fathers came a whispered command,
stern whispers
---don't stare---
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