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Quite cold this morning.
Someone stole my shopping cart
with my heavy coat.

Don’t move or intrude,
never meet eyes, sit meekly,
raise cup, jingle coins.

Syringes like dice
tossed against walls, land snake-eyes.
Little Joe craps out.

Enter exit door,
nap in movie theater,
old popcorn for lunch.

Sirens, gunshots, rain,
methed-out bums, rancid food, ants,
all wake me at night.

Don’t know my future.
Caked with dirt and hopelessness,
can’t see my palm lines.

 

 

 

DL Shirey writes from Portland, Oregon, where it’s probably raining. His short stories and non-fiction appear in over 20 publications, including Page & Spine, Zetetic and Every Day Fiction. You can find more of his writing at dlshirey.com.

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