I BE DAZED
There's an old truck on Morton Street
just sitting. Down on its wheels, on one
side. I wonder always how things end
up in such situations : someone just
pulls up, drops it there, takes the key,
and walks away? Life should be so
simple. It's the same - sometimes -
with a shopping cart too, in the wild,
weird suburbs. They're just left anywhere
someone's been pleased to leave them.
In the city here, they immediately - on
the other hand - become houses, nay,
rolling palaces of grand intrigue. Closets
of cardboard, and beds of great deed.
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