by Howie Good
Birds scuff for dark crumbs
under the sidewalk tables.
A police spy in the corner
notes the time. Everywhere
there are sons of bitches.
In a dingy rooming house
boarders come and go unseen
except for the burnt matches
they drop in the hall.
January 7, 2010
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2 comments:
excellent poem, as is always the case from Howie Good
i'd cut the last line.
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