glazing their wrists,
their mouths were the soft,
cold interiors of clams.
Outside the rallies have picked up steam.
Men holding signs of dead babies.
Women pushing strollers,
not sure what day of the week it is.
I'm pushing my dream agenda.
House parties on the docks,
grandfather clocks on adderall,
and arranged marriages for four year olds.
Everyone walks around with confidence
and $40 of good feeling in their pocket,
though someone's fucking their girlfriend,
and the wind is tearing at their arm.
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