second city

red planet rotating to the sound of drums

women in wide-brimmed hats with gloved hands

pressed over mouths whispering wildly about spectacle

“how celestial!”    “unbelievable!”    “terrifying, really!”

epic cheering heard over the scent of flushed bodies

stars groaning as they lift their weight in gold dust

skyscrapers marvel at the curvature of the sun’s beefy biceps

drum rolls, trumpets, and hereafter pronouncements aside

the observation of unsmudged glasses, journalist pens

poised over notebooks, redacting all uninteresting plots

sits a dusty woman, deliberately

peeling a banana on a bus bench

waiting for this world to pass


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