Tomorrow’s Game



Overhead heard not a word
with brakes screeching
around the curve
sharp and bitter
to one’s hearing
initially, a causing fear

the tracks casting
darkness long-lasting
as a breeze whips up

sublime fragrances
of business dames
toting all the famous
wealthy names,

as China-town
duplicates with dimes
slim fingers nimble
eyes squinting blind.

Yet under seat or underfoot
the garbage dirt and clinging soot
a rancid stench of homeless shame.

The trip began in hurried pace
a minor speck among the race;
then ends in twilight’s
much the same. To begin again:

Tomorrow’s game.


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