day by day we wait
for what
by strident daylight monotony
or some moon demanding anticlimax
sick and wasting hours between
servitude and excess
brawls about the city
strewn with
clacking and pop
of operatic gaiety
say we
won the World Series
slivers not lost
on the thumb of the maker
dynasties lacking the mistrial
of dire awakening
hungover
or not at all
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