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Cab Rides in the City

November 6, 2012

A midst groping for the words that will help carry my heaviness, I stop.

I tire of my verse.  I grow impatient with my rusty handling of language and so I let my sadness remain inside me. I wait for my belly to shatter. I fling my words loose and let it unravel with the frivolous grace of toothpicks.

I tire of my breakable heart. The world shrugs through the telling of my sad tale —the city pierces with its jewel-cold lights — everyone has troubles, ya’ know.

The storm has pulled the unhurried winter with it. Note the world’s unhappy surprise, a large white cloud has smeared itself across the sky in protest.

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