Hot glare of silver march
they stand in the shade inebriated
the heat distorts the air above the road
those vagabonds pretending
In the shame of the bar
trying to hide
cockroach eyes
Not my fingernail to tear them out
each lot soul
on this side of the board
aimless and lost
gravel and cement
lost to the world
lost to the streets
its not your place anymore
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