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            Stockpiling Icicles
            Mistryel Walker

            Seven truants stand
            on upturned trash cans
            in imminent danger of falling
            into the holly bush. They shriek,
            wrestle foot-long icicles
            from the gutter overhead,
            coats open, mittens sticking.
            Methodically they snap
            until a row of icicle stumps
            cling pointlessly to the overhang,
            until they are armed and dangerous
            little men, dripping a trail,
            delighting in their shiny weapons
            of after-class destruction. "Hey,
            where's my sword?" a red-cheeked
            stabber of snowmen later yells,
            his hand in his pocket
            fingers in a pocket-puddle.

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Document last modified on: 04/01/2006

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