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David Subacchi
He brought us here
To a cracked plaster bar
In a nowhere village
We kept our coats on
As Ann poured beer
From the jug
He said this was real
He liked the way Ann
Kept the men in order
We exchanged glances
Lit cigarettes, blew smoke
At the ceiling
Stumbling into the night
Several hours later
Cold air snatched
At our throats
Behind us the rattle
Of Ann bolting the door
Nowhere
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