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So all I want to know now
is,
what did they do with
the witness,
the only eyewitness,
the one with the wet
nose and fur coat,
the howling dog of that
crescent moon night,
pal of the bloody paw prints,
the only witness
who could have shut Sheck down,
looked OJ in the face
--and growled,
oblivious to cameras,
call-in shows, or court
etiquette,
loyal only to the memory of the limp hand
that stroked,
and filled the bowl.
October 1995