No, indeed, he tells me, he won't do it.
Won't let the rain spoil his noonday sortie
into a dust covered battlefield; won't allow the
grumbling offensive oatmeal to fester
anymore.
I, doubtful. Ask him -- how sir, will you recover,
when you are as you are, a cold man, alone in artificial
light, in the intentional dusk of apartment interiors,
amongst broken chairs and ashen walls?
Sir (he tells me), you are mistaken. We
are not slaves to our contrivances
Our feet are not tied to the lint-
fingered sensations of interior
carpeting.
No! We have our bicycles,
our windows are blinded, but at least
they exist.
Our palms can barely keep down
our swaying
disconsolate
hair.
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