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Last City


[clock] 1-MINUTE READ PUBLISHED: June 25, 2014

Perhaps it is the matter of going out
which bothers me. That you or I

or someone we know will have to get up,
wearing only the warmth of the memory

of our clothes, and find an airy socket
in the car-fumed street. They say

it is possible, for those who go quickly
or who are born with only one soul

to slip out with dignity, from the back row
at an opera, and into a black cab

with plush seats and tinted windows full
of aquarium lights. But what about

the rest—the underdressed millions
forced to rise and leave with the curtain

still up, and the sound of someone’s voice
lingering on the air. Do they file

one by one into the street, leaving behind
a pair of gloves or a half-touched

glass of wine, waiting for no one to arrive
and offer to pay the fare? But then

who’s to say that you and I, busy making
small talk with someone or another

on the last sidewalk, couldn’t manage
to find a road of our own, and a ride.

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