Sorting through
a sea of blue
poplin sport shirts,
I wonder
(in the following order)
how many hands
sewed on these buttons,
how many war torn countries
have shopping malls,
and if I left on the coffeepot,
when struck by
a fantastically likely
thought in polyester:
that there is no real way
to handle
everything we can lose,
and our only choice,
is to sit on a bench outside
and watch the masses
quietly leading their lives,
earbuds in
and drifting about
in a sea
of a false fluorescence.



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