as stiff as a backboard protruding— jutted bone / fetid waste the smell of weeping willows tears rolling on the blackbirds little-black-face cars whiz by in a hurried pace we fiddle the locks to close out the last of what remains no feeling of need to be on time or need— to be someplace it’s like that these days we blow in the wind like dandelion seeds fuzz drifting every which way landing momentarily then floating away.
©Jay Mora-Shihadeh
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