Rusted dawn sun up week
day rush day run
day traffic. These 70's
clinical buildings, glass
swinging doors and long
time backseat soul young
boy floating past Runzas and
fast-food, holy Catholic
processing. Hefty garbage
bags and what day is
garbage day anyway?
Long shadows, drifting
drooping cigarette ash.
Soft drift of flakes
of ash, tiny backyard,
traffic hiss / roar out
front.
Drift along, spit in the dust.
We’re riding the maelstrom.
All is quiet on the morning
deck of the world and
we've a long way to
go.
- - - - - - - - -
(March 26th, 2012)
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