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a poem by Michael N. Thompson


The only signs of life
On 3 A.M. streets
Are the beat cops
Who've frittered away lives
With blunt-faced wives
Concerned with ovaries

Pleasures are sold
Behind the bus station
By slack-jawed girls
With more than a few years
On their bones

Toil leads to anguish
As someone's daughter
Sleeps at the top
Of church steps
Wrapped in a moth-ravaged blanket
With concrete as her pillow

The petty traipse as martyrs
Through Binghamton
Trying to pawn off woe
And hapless existences
Onto anyone
Who'll take the blame

The hum of disarray
Idles as if a Hemi engine
Ready to rev on the red line
And the daily grind echoes
Like an open canyon

Different shades of gray
Coat this ugly-souled town
And the only thing
That soothes like a balm
Is served during happy hour

© by Michael N. Thompson
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #26 ~ April 2013