There was no place to sit.
They were losing time.
The regular fields that they frequent were full.
Dotting everything like the tops of ‘i’s.
It was Nick at Nite at home for them
Like piping hot potatoes waiting.
And she was working piece-meal for a living,
giving in to little diversions.
Young devotchka dynamos.
It was black and twirling and
packed w/ disaster.
A knap-sack full of socks and razors
packed for going camping with.
In despair it is necessary to keep prepared.
To prepare the sheets for sleeping slumber,
to cut the trees for looming lumber.
Web web web web web web web
the motherfucking circle of life.
The hilarious, unyielding tracks of time.
-clw
C. Ward
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