We Wait, Parade.

Skin pulled across the face.

A precession at the curb.

Hands tight at the sticks.

Hands, tight at the sticks.

We could sell our souls.

Or remove the tag from

the appendix.  My name is

by owner only, and as

the shadow wakes, my hands

are still tight at the sticks.

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One thought on “We Wait, Parade.

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