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Preacher

Moody, grumpy, frumpy, he emerged

from their bedroom with all the charm

of a freight train from Hoboken.


He had broken his glasses at dinner and

slammed a fist breaking his wrist. In a tizzy

at breakfast, he was left handedly.


Scribbling notes for his sermon at eleven,

entitled The Seven Deadly Sins. Adding

an eighth, he chugged off to the shower.




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