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lighting this spot and warming my cheek
every cell in my body leans into it
wishing they could travel to my upturned face

this body forgotten my mind has gone inside
scribes the scenes through these windows
on phantom slate with invisible chalk
shallow imprints struggling to survive my melancholy

pigeons living in the moment slide
down the steep verdigris of the neighboring gazebo
vying for any position on the populated lip
if they fail they fly, hardly a tragedy

a flock of suits float by
pin stripes, hard shoulders, polished shoes
traversing a stream of jeans and dreds’, cheerful skirts and Chapstick
garish grey decoys with plastic wide eyes

the clank of glass on wood brings me back
images and words splash and scatter like spilled paint brushes
my customer, my duty, but not the reason I’m not writing
it’s just, I have no poetry in me today

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