Conversion
within a blizzard of faces,
somewhere in a catacomb of rectangles,
another when erodes into a financial if.
a conversion.
another two-legged sort of the six-legged slog.
columns, rows,
an obit haunts the manicured face.
the cheekbones now tombstones,
firm in the garden of compromise.
this whole city, long ago,
celebrated when petals
starbursted into now extinct plants.
today, just another pair of drained irises,
bobbing and crushed
in the Coliseum of Clocks.
outraged, maybe,
over a heartbeat that is a riptide
sucking the anger back down.
a cringing thought
rises for a single breath:
a middle class beggar
in a pressed wool yoke.
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