Other than the sound of shoes pounding the pavement smudged
with oil stains. It was quiet. The street lamps littered
between every third house. I haven't been here in a while.
I never listened for this other world where fire hydrants
are encrusted with rust and leaves slide down sewage drains
with no regrets. Places where deers can bound across roads
faster than drivers can react. Where it smells like grain. Grain
and dirt stirred in the pit of the plains while grasshoppers fiddle
the sun's eulogy. Somewhere in all of this is me, The world
didn't work at times. Crushed pack of new ports were the remains
You'd hear on daily news. Sound of dog's drool on the wind.
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