you are
one complaint
after another, linked
in a sinewy fashion
for photo-op
moments, when you just
cannot bear
the weight of the
camera’s inscrutable
eye but covet perhaps
an ear instead.
you are
one shit list
after another, piled
in a distraught fashion
for recomposition
while you run out of
pillows under which
you can temporarily
tuck the grudges
so optimistically

you are talking about
the economy again
in relation to the
frequency of ringing
from the bell next door.
you say ever since
the market has turned
from bull to bear, the man
opens that pawnshop
with a whistle and
walks away with
another fender

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