You waken at 4AM, cold
in the sweat that the day will bring
nothing but murder and the strange
dirge of that dying man droning
in your head all night, pleading you
to open your mind but
it's too late, there's no mind to open.
You stumble in the darkness,
grope your way between walls
and ghosts and shadows
of someone else's life, so strange,
at 50, to be so afraid, so small,
staring out at the cold oak leaves
tossing in the wind, the swollen
rain falling like silver eyes,
the smell of copper and stars.
All morning it's like this,
sitting at the window as
the world continues its slow
dying. This is what you
have come to in America, where
to waken is to waken to no
new day, no reprieve, no
redemption. You are here
and then you're gone,
and the rest is, and the rest is,
well, let's face it, the
rest is, as they say, all
but forgotten.
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