Sunday, November 13

Saturday Night, Nine-Minutes-Past-One

Snuggled up to the wet fog that
clings against the cobbles, there
are drunks singing in the distance—

an old folk song, floating in & out
of tune ; voices held in time by
broken bottles and streetlight flickers

but where to are they ?this group of
( maybe )four girls three who bounce their
drunken happiness off the brick walls

of buildings while a (lonely dove )plastic
bag, trapped in branches, flutters &
struggles in the dregs of a sober breeze.

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