Wednesday, August 26, 2015

7083. I WAS PAID TO DIE

I WAS PAID TO DIE
All that stuff comes together  -  outside, the city
sweeper, wetting the streets, nearly empty, as it 
rolls along its pre-dawn way. The two men in 
jackets, trading cigarettes as they exit their car. 
The strange lady with the briefcase  -  way too 
overdressed, I'd say, for post-midnight Summer 
air. 'I'm here to attend the Apocalypse,' was all
she would say to me. I hear that metallic bellow
which seagulls make  -  they are swooping in, as 
if in trouble, from the nearby harbor on the
east end of the city I'm in.

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