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one o'clock saturday morning

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The man next to me smells of stale beer and
Flowers
His shoulders are heavy and his breath is silent
There are cobwebs in his mouth
Lips stitched together
Skin grown over from disuse.


His eyes are closed as he leans against the window
He is younger than I thought,
I can see this now
His limbs snap and swing,
Public transit is too rough a place
For this rag-doll man
Skin and bones and fraying fabric.




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