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Christmas eve poem, that has nothing to do with Christmas, except perhaps, being cold

My Dead Labrador Retriever Visits in the Form of a Hostess

Then, around 8 that morning, I saw the big woman in our garden.  The muddy ruts and bootprints between the garage and the house had frozen stiff, but she lay in a red cocktail dress, her shoulders exposed, the thin straps of her dress biting into her fat white shoulders.  I couldn't see her face; she was lying with her back to the window, using her arm as a pillow.  She wore high-heeled silver sandals, a little scuffed -- her legs crossed at the ankles.  I stuck my forehead against the glass, hoping I could see a little more.  The glass was cold and comfortable against my skin, but after half an hour, my head started to ache.  The ache had a beat, in/out.  I breathed against the glass and drew an outline of the woman in the steam.  I put on my slippers, and then my large, tan, puffy coat, still stained from last week's dog puke.  The woman didn't move when I squatted and poked her with a hanger.  I touched her shoulder and she felt hot, like frying pan hot.  She sighed and rolled over, and said, without opening her eyes, "Nevermind. I was just trying to see if the door was really alarmed."

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I wondered where she went

Mom? Is that you?

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good call!

good call!