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I don’t know this thing,

this silver and brown thing.

The machined handle, the chipped wood.

The residues and musty vestiges of tobacco.

The little metal embellishments.

I trust this thing. I know it’s use,

it’s purpose, it’s presence.

What I wish to know, however,

is whose lips held this thing.

Whose lungs did it fill?

May I touch these well-made things?

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