Two owls held a banner in the sky,
Made of word-salad, our love was less than,
The hollowest 21st century,
That never said, ‘Hello!’ or yet, ‘Good-bye!’
From the attic window I saw her last
July 4th, in the rain, rushing to bring in milk.
I had to rob myself of a $5 bill,
And let the landlord threaten me to taste.
And when I did, I followed her tracks,
To a park bench; she was just finishing,
A smoke as she turned away to go:
A pale blossom given to a pale world.
It’s too late for suicide, though my clothes,
On the clothesline they are slowly drying off.
And the autumn sun has set over fields,
Of broken-glass and concrete, and if you,
Unlatch my gasmask, then you can watch,
The battlefield of my sardonic smile
And invisible sorrow played out in real time.
If not, you will never know me, and history
Will be your judge, jury and executioner.
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