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by Carol Rucks
On an autumn walk around the neighborhood, through back alleys of fallen reds and yellows, I found an open case, a rounded Memorex purse of cds, hand-burned, abandoned in a pile of leaves. The feminine handwriting on each compact disc looked playful, willful, teasing. The Beatles, Dylan, The Black Keys, were tossed here along Rollins Avenue. I collected these to keep, twenty-four of them, and read over the titles: The White Album, Playbook, The Very Best of the Heatbreakers. Some girl tried too hard to win the boy she wanted. I could smell the alcohol, the sweat of hysteria, as he gunned the Pontiac down this quiet road at night. He had tired of her lusts, her chatter, her music.