Yard Sale of Thoughts

A people in search of gold,

but afraid of the sun.

Tambourine brows beat words

down no one

remembers how to say.

We’re all loosely tied

characters with several names.

Traffic weaves us together:

red taillight ribbons

folded over in disarray.

Heads slightly bowed,

but not in defeat;

we’re nothing if not proud—

we’re living with it

better than yesterday.

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