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This is not a poem

· poetry

A turquoise ring hung from his middle finger, calloused hands from beating his drum; "my life dream is to work at the seed vault in Iceland," he twirled a series of beaded bracelets around his wrist.

His long sandy hair hung loosely from a bun at the base of his head, his collared compass shirt buttoned to the second button below his neck.

He stood barefoot

Another man sat near, a tribal patterned blanket draping over his shoulders, knees bouncing up and now like he was suppressing the urge to leap up and run, "what is the temperature of our star?" his knee stopped, "hey doesn't Russia have the second largest seed vault besides Iceland?"

He sat wide eyed.

Three other men ran down the porch stairs, one leaping off the top step like a flying spider, piling into the bed of an ice blue Chevy. The vault wasn't far, "our shift starts soon," he smiled, "we could take you there."

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