A poem by Joesph Green Posted here with his permission Living alone he finds his own company thin, so he considers getting a dog. Then he thinks about taking care of the dog, feeding it, cleaning up after it. Perhaps even losing it. Instead he feeds the stove crumpled paper, split kindling, dry wood. Good stove, he says. Good stove. It matches his own attitude, this stove, the way it roars a little before it settles down to hold forth more quietly. To give its steady, measure

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