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Something tells me
that the big bad wolf is getting carried away.

In San Francisco, the buildings are the woods,
shadows in the alleys without
the blessing of trees.

But we can pretend, as the pigs sit dazed
in their offices, waiting for faxes, filling
spreadsheets from memory. Facebook is minimized.

The wolf can imagine it really clearly--plump
creatures, warm and average.

Our tension is where we least expect it.
We fold a page over, somewhere
in the middle, and forget to return to the scene.