October 2010
Exit Signs Shine Brighter at Night
a new poem
by Alan Gilbert
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Yellow lines shield the pedestrians from the cars, the platforms from the subways, as the gradual glow of a new day with its you-really-no-you-really-shouldn’t-have fruit baskets makes the rounds of outpatient visits. It’s called hope by another name. It’s still quiet on the porn shoot set. Clear- cutting eroded the soil past the horizon, like pounding a bank teller’s glass with phantom limbs later lost in the machine. After all that, now it’s time for band practice? Crap. Computers and humans fall asleep in the same room, because home is imagined. A blind taste test compared microwavable quiche and skiwear. |
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