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You queen, you archangel,
Standing deranged in the pouring rain,
Under the towering columns of Broadway,
Waiting for your lost companion to arrive.

You queen, you archangel,
Your perfume is fading and your tulips are wilting,
Your prestigious face betrays a looks of discreet anger
At the fact that your companion is still not beside you.

A large group of friends walks out of seeing The Color Purple
In their inapropriately elegent Armani dresses.
Their faces show irrevocable cruelty towards you
As they walk off without a word and leave you in the rain.

You queen, you archangel.
Unable to stand the freezing, pouring rain much longer
You prepare to move and guard yourself under the flailing limbs of an Oak traa
When, at last, your companion arrives.

Your companions gray suit makes them no more unique or distinguishable
Than any of the other corporate animals of New York City.
Their principle reaction to seeing you is one that is utterly invalid and hidden
But really, they are anxious to know you.
You queen, you archangel.





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