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RASPUTIN HAIR
He knew shortcuts through
the most obscure parts of town,
conjured a soup kitchen
with some radar knowledge.
A corner store for wine
where if you took your own bottle
you could serve yourself.
He told me of his previous life
of criminals and art therapy.
We met by chance on the metro
in Rome, months later
then travelled north to Lucca.
Slept along red walls
and his pavement sketches
kept us in pizza.
A bar with a sour old woman
was our regular shelter
where the husband filled glasses
when she wasn’t looking.
I saw him last as I boarded a train,
Rasputin hair and beard;
the strange arc of his nomad story,
a scribbled address
on a scrap of good intention.
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