Once every two or three years or so
On a rare Southern winters morning
I sit for hours and watch my breath
And I think out loud, yep I’m still alive

It’s rare for me to find thanks in breathing
And it’s hard for me to find a miracle
There was that one time
I saw Bobby throw a horseshoe
And damned if that thing didn’t land
And hang on the top of that pole
Which I figured had to be God telling me something
Even if it was, “You’re about to lose a game of horseshoes”

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