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I watch as:
Someone’s tragic windblown umbrella;

Ambles the edge of concrete and asphalt,

Like a drunk crab trolling along

The beach tidal borderline.

Imagine I am not at the bus stop.

 

I close my eyes on the commuter train.

Dreaming a snow crab voice-over

I once read for Red Lobster.

A beach bird, umbrella and then me at the

Bus stop again trying not to get,

Blown down the curb of life’s boulevard;
Walking the best that I can,
Often lost, alone and crabby.
Pushing to catch that last wave

Towards the needed pot of gold.

 

These mercurial March mornings,

I awaken to a new bird-call of spring daily

In this old and new former place.

Where I exist in spite of failure’s frustration;

In the temporary solitude of the barrel of many Indies,

Among those of you who I do not want to see.

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