There’s no recovering from the sight of
Lettrist skaters rolling through
An abandoned helicopter pad
In a once desirable neighborhood
Spiked wrist cuffs, feathered head gear
Trafficking in language shrillingly loud
Causing the aunties to quake in the crosswalk
Like June bugs being shaken in a tiny wood cage.
A tumbril atilt
Corner of E Cigs and Vape
Out tumble the trundled
That layered look
Like a relief map of an archipelago
Or Atlantic salmon
Playing blackjack
At an Indian casino in California.
I think the problem is
People with umbrellas
Selling solar door to door
The sun gets cast to another screen
The map’s not to scale
And early blight is curtains if you’re a tomato
It’s a small town
But super expensive.
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