this life is a sneaky sausage

There are infections
in the rattling car fixtures,
there are bent old wizards
in the trees!
New York, New York
like a little boy running,
New York
like a boy running behind
the park benches
chasing a bubble or
a missing wheel.
And me, I plot
while the
wind picks up
I plot slow
while a bird squawks
in time to the
shifting shadows.
Someone throws a party
someone throws a pitch
someone throws a fit
at a reflection or a
stuck and bloodied.
There are prayers written
for this kind of thing
but someone lost them
on the way to work.



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