We've got money she said
tugging at infant keychains
as she choked the fading brass.
Quicksilver-streaked stains
shot across the rollerskate
and bruise scuffed linoleum.
We've got a happy home she blurted
keychains dropping to the floor
as yale, master, and latch bolted
fisheyed into shag tv oceans.
I've got work to do she apologized
knife blades screaming over car doors
as faceless urchins slid into the sidewalk.
Worn sandpaper protests bounced
off sewer lids and potholes
returning hollow to
the silent slam of eyelids.
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