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Fourth Coast Cafe, 12am

I can smell her mentholated breath,
even from this dim corner,
this smoke encrusted place.
She floats in air, legs folded under
skirt, not touching the floor.
Writes in littlegirl flowerbooks,
a uruof the dispossessed.
She is one of us, we who hover
as images, at the end of everything.
I can see our status with the world,
refugees of corridors of endless
self-help bookstores. Blearily
peeping from buckets of bloody memories,
victims all of us, masters of
caffinated lies. Our atmosphere,
fetid memory of burnt offerings to
one hundred thousand nameless gods.

Absence permeates this place,
she shares it.
Every shakyhand cigarette light
is echoed.

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