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When the Moon is Old

Olivia Meyer

A corpse

of an idea of course

crumpled in a heap

on that bus floor

along with the hazy liquid

and everything else

that doesn’t belong

 

I tossed it out

­ ­ ­ ­  the other day

­ ­ ­ ­  but the heap grows

With every journey I see

her

stuck

under seats

trampled

­ ­ ­ ­by everyone else who chooses to ignore her

 

She doesn’t deserve it

at least I think,

 

What she really needs

is a good burial

one where everyone cries

I would pick her up

and set her down in that good grave

 

but there’s too many people

and my hands would get dirty

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