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August 7, 2009

In New York,
I would walk down
three flights of stairs
and buy cigarettes from
Key Food.

I would fancy myself
melancholy, meaningful,
poetic, and would pay cash.
I scoffed at the stolid
Manhattan banks, their
spires scratching the ancient sky.

Now, at a Flying J in Abilene,
I only yawn and swipe my card,
noticing my wrist is
pale where my watch was,
and my knuckles are
sharp and pink, and I am
growing older. I take
the receipt, and think

somehow, all I have spent
is floating now, slowly
and silently as smoke,
until it reaches the exact same place.

by William Sea

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  1. Justin Wolf
    August 7, 2009 at 1:13 pm

    Loved, loved, loved this poem. Wish I could write like this.

  2. August 8, 2009 at 5:36 am

    Yes, it’s fantastic.

  3. August 9, 2009 at 2:06 pm

    Oh. Beautifully done.

  4. pat
    August 13, 2009 at 12:04 pm

    Wow! I love the ending, that complete shift.

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