Tuesday, January 17, 2012

holding food court

Music fit for a corpse
Not even the dead
The air was filled with exhaust and dread
and yesterday's talk
Push, pull, understand
what was expected of you
Alone in the crowd
The server wipes away the coffee stains
The new clothes in the bag, please
I can't believe that record shop is still open
The elevators go all the way to the roof
Or the basement
Crowds negotiate their way to the exit signs
To their cars
waiting outside
in between the puddles or the piles of snow
Department stores are filled with dreams for cheap
I found myself in one the other day
It seemed a mistake
I let myself out
The winter air felt good on my face

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