The afternoon sings sharp
and crowds the beat
bap bap bap
with urgencies.
I wish it could hang
back
loose
bluesy
in Stacy Adams
two-tone
wing tip
shoes
saying
“Hey brother
how you
makin’
it?”
like dusk
on Frenchman Street
in New
Orleans
the smell of weed
in the breeze.
Domesticity kills
more men than
cancer.
“
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