Tuesday, May 23, 2017

9555. KEN PEN

Here once more is that
damned address that gets
everything wrong. I awake 
again too early to get moving,
and the lamp is on in the alcove
nearby  -  that same lady who
leaves it on always I'm sure. These
are the people one gets to live with,
and there's just not much choice.
Brain matter like old bread : I watch
her as she waddles. Down three steps 
of concrete, and then over one. She 
stoops to pick up her paper, and starts
talking to cats. Good God not again.
There's a truck garage two yards over.
A few men stand around, always making
noise; cigarettes, jokes, and contortions.
Thy tire me out. They make me ill. The
long metal gates slams while they banter.
I want to go home, but then realize I've 
already done that and made that selection.
Where's replay? Let me make a correction.

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