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White MAG
With a great locomotive heave,
I pulled the sliding door open
To let the dog out
Pushing him at his hind legs,
As he ran down to pee in the new snow.
"Close the door," my mother yelled.
"We're not rich."
I paid no attention.
The snow was raw and cold
Packed down from humidity.
I pushed my big toe in
To draw lines and words.
In the wet, hard snow,
I wrote "white."
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