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| because of Corner Lurker, of course |
| he who stands in that dank crevasse |
| between the washer and the dryer |
| and stares so wide, his eyes |
| without need for lids, blinkless,
tearless, |
| pupils the size of bruised-black |
| thumbnails as they track me |
| from the instant my vulnerable |
| ankles begin their descent into the |
| basement gloom. He has stalked
me |
| all my life, my dear wife - |
| Oh . . . you beat him to death |
| with the ironing board last night? |
| So there's no reason I can't |
| help you with the laundry? |
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