by Ray Succre 

The ceiling fan turns, a man speaks,
cups clink and there’s a spill,
the traffic spatters by out front,
the bay shrieks in gulls and clicking crabs,
this ugly plastic pen with all her parts,
toilets flushing, sinks running,
cars parking, doors closing,
seats moved upon, stood from, sat down in,
the wind on asphalt, the Earth under curbs,
the sky above fuming cranes,
the days. 

By twenty-eight humans wiring across
their lives, eating,
I’m near all I can see and hear,
a member of all this,
my head in my hands in the
acrid gasoline aftershave mist
of modern living.

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