Friday in paradise
the marching band
is playing
up and down the
streets
you can hear
the misfits banging
pots and pans
from their camp
to match them
their timpani and snare
the sun is
strong-arming
the night
and with it
any dreams
that try to linger
I can smell the coffee in the windows
feel
the fat of sleep
around my eyes
- to the trenches
to the shower stalls
and the buttered bread
the work boots
the shirt/suits
and the
bus
stops
there is someone
lying
in
the
street.
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