He cocks his
head
at the still
burning butt of his last cigarette
falling to
the wet pavement.
A nap in the
Panhandle
Is the
ragged Napoleon’s
Privilege to
dream,
a defense
against the fog’s whispers
whirring
through the mesh green above
it’s what
the double-decker slowing to a crawl
gives as
consolation to the Ohios,
Brit-Columbians,
Med-terraneans
on this
dragging detour through Fell.
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