bells clang to the hour
voices below
on street,
quiet suburban street,
where no doubt
picnics and bar-b-ques are
planned,
slow drawl of daylight/
sunlight breaking clouds,
grind of plastic on
pavement,
chair legs? can't think
of anything else
somewhere a father scratches his
ass, thinks about relatives,
burgers, beers, wife, kids,
friday off and this is what I got
to put up with?
he grunts or sighs
he heads back into the house
coffee is heating breakfast is waiting
or at least I like to think,
but whatever if it's not and
all the same it's happening
out there in my head
and that's
as real as it will ever get
from here.
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