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    This broken jaw of our lost homes

    Back lit by the radiant smoldering of strip malls,
    oily blackbirds perch,
    in cottonwood trees,
    around the desolate ball park.

    Their generic piece of cabaret,
    laments like a penny whistle.
    A theme song in search of a movie.

    Whiffs of fusty fast food cartons,
    mingle with musty marijuana,
    bartered for sundown kitchens,
    and garlic-studded,
    golden-crusted masterpieces,
    wet with oregano spaghetti sauce.

    The man in his e-office toils,
    while she wonders,
    what became of the 6th Avenue preacher;
    sips her seven minute slosh,
    and lets the instant rice boil over.

    E.Haulfield

thank you,thank you.

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