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Viewing Vagabonds

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she felt she should have wanted
scarlet-glinting stoplights stained red on rainy pavements,
spilled light of streetlamps dissolved golden into air that smells of tire screeches,
city filth in her veins, stale wind on her skin
(for that’s what the stories of wanderers told her to want).
but she found herself curiously content
with consistent alarm clocks
and the brake-pedal-brake of foggy morning traffic.



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