Fall 2008 • Vol. XXX No. 4 Poetry |

Nickel

This morning I awoke to find the furnace had shut down in the night. Outside it was fifteen degrees and the wind had blown every cloud from the sky. Inside even the dog was shivering. The man at the oil company said happily: You sure do use a lot of oil. To say that we keep the heat turned low and the fireplace burning would have led him to make sarcastic remarks, so I kept my mouth shut and got ready to pay another five hundred bucks. I like to think of the money trickling back to the Middle East. A dollar here, a dollar there, with the last few cents pressed in the palm of a man or woman walking to the market to buy bread— Iraqi, Saudi, or somebody else. But isn't that how it works? Our money trickles down all over the world and the last bit winds up in the hand of somebody buying something small: bread, goat cheese, shoelaces. Nearly every day the paper has a front-page picture of the effects of a bomb exploding in an Iraqi market, lots of dead and lots of body

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Mourning Doves

By Stephen Dobyns

This morning I awoke to find the furnace had shut down in the night. Outside it was fifteen degrees and the wind had blown every cloud from the sky. Inside […]

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