Fat gnats eat the air in their peripheral.
Peeling paint on the walls, like the fraying
of fabric, reminds them that they’re breaking
down. Pumpkin patches so close to the city
they turn the sky above them blank,
like their expressions on the street,
and they can’t help but keep their eyes
fixed firmly on the ground.
Frustration with the order of the traffic
drives their fists into each other’s faces.
These women wearing nothing but nets
dig their nails into the frets of electric guitars.
It pleases them to only hear the music.
The night hangs off their shoulders
like a drunk friend trying to walk home,
and when they get there it doesn’t want to say goodbye.

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