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Marry Me Margret’s over at the morgue by now. She was something else she was.
Stand out there on the corner four to eight hours every day. Not Thursday’s though. She always took Thursdays off even when she was married which was a lot.
And on her day off you best not even look her way. You best be still.
One chump from Maryland I can’t remember his name Bob maybe he followed her for five blocks on Thanksgiving and woke the next day to the thump of Black Friday circulars stapled to his sternum and below.
I married her four times and every Wednesday at 11:30 she’d say, “don’t you peek,” then she’d slip a ring on a hook by the sink and administer tiny droplets of Krazy glue to each of my eyes and hold ‘em shut against her beating heart.
And every Friday at 2 AM she’d pry ‘em open with a letter opener bathed in bay rum.
The things you do.
Some son of a bitch killed her and I can see her down on the street all in white standing on an overturned Glidden five gallon bucket painted white and pink and kind of pretty with carrots all around the edges as candles and she’s calling out,
“Hey come on, I’ll marry you. I’ll marry any of you fuckers. Except you, you keep moving.”