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 Post subject: Poetry
PostPosted: Wed Aug 29, 2012 11:03 am 
Pie-Pan Grease
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Joined: Mon Aug 20, 2012 11:33 am
Posts: 6
The body creases at the syringe-like blood vessels.

A young man walks up,
his hands curled behind his spine,
clutching a miniature boat.

The diminutive sails wave in the wind behind him.

He hands me the boat.
I cannot breath.

There is the faint sound of a pinball ratcheting off of aluminum.
The croaks of his throat enter mine and I cannot breath.

An old man orders a BLT at the counter, just past the sidewalk,
through the deck, across the tiled floor of the diner.
The young man walks away from me,
but I still have the boat. He signals with his hands in sign language,

but I do not speak sign language.

I cannot scream after him.
The waters of my lungs fill the street,
and the boat floats down towards the pinball machine.

Old lockets are rusting and wearing away,
and macho-men make cat-calls in the street,
treading water.

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