window box

sometimes it’s good to sit
majestic in your underwear
letting your hair hang haphazardly
resting your eyes on the windowsill
to sip coffee and think
the 80’s have come and gone
but still there’s a
persistence of decadence
where gadgets and gain are lost
in galleries of gloom, and
it’s mostly noise without purpose
so i turn the music down real low
you know the kind
with blues and demons
whispering narcotic tales
of hope and eventuality
and i drift
while outside pedestrians are
arrogant and oblivious
to the rush of traffic
late people, angry
in tin and plastic boxes
sliding down cracked pavement
i’m waiting again as I so often do
winter’s coming I heard them say
but i think quietly that, perhaps
it never left




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