a cafe
with only one table
outside
even in November
is strange
a man tries reading
Gravity's Rainbow
"but it mocks me."
I'd rather fry kidney's
on a stove
oil crackles like kirby
on the page,
think iron smell.
color is dull
to none existent.
all white, bland
utterances from
bodies lying on
subway grates,
morning
coffee sips mankind
a selective hi
novels in garbage cans
chairs upturned
on counter tops
chill winds
scuttle through
alleyways
old city pathways
cracked pavement
like an arrow
points north.
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