Your eyes downcast
You are lost in your own reality.
A cigarette dangles in your left hand
The toe of your right shoe balances on the concrete
Long, brown hair falls down on a business suit.
No matter what the problem
I want to tell you
That this too will pass
But I can't
We are strangers.
(c)Bill Blake
published in Skipping Stones 2005
Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA
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