against the table
the rain like nickles
from some lost pocket
fall
discolored and
useless
to the cold silver
speckled ground
under the tables
the spiders born in
back of taxis
new york to holbrook
arizona
never knowing their fathers
ask their mothers
how often in their lives
will they have to
watch the sky fall
and the answer unfolds over the
endless flooded grate
until they move the tables away
darling
until they put the tables away
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