Catering poem #12

And here, you sit in some tunnel forgotten by god, hoarding food like light starved vermin, hissing about the length of a break eating lukewarm chicken in a graveyard of dreams, concocted by hateful immigrants too ambitious to wake up.  I pass no judgementfor I too am suc an undertaker of dreams, channel surfing with one eye open.  The lighting is bad and I sit on the bleached tile in the shadows.  They can’t get you when you slouch, protecting the queer shoulder from being flayed by the wheel, fired for being a poet.  The grand hall is em pty.  Only then will I dance.

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