Saturday, April 28, 2018


Outdoors, words were warm.
It was hard to tell apart
The people from their machines.

The irritated shovel
Operator groused and swore.
The shovel swore and grunted.

The cyclists glued to their frames
Spun down the canyon
Under beetle-shaped helmets.

The poet in the parked car
Muttered with the radio,
Annoyed at all the noises.

Someone wanted to fix things.
He hung the shade, groomed his wings.

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