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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