Good morning

Slave-coloured girls park their nimble, ridiculous bottoms
On a fountain’s bare concrete wall. Sunrise trams,
Heavy with pen and telephone people screech
By somnolent, obligatory homeless perched by ATMs.

Pigeons tussle over the crumble a wrinkled hand deals.
From up here, delicate as a tree, the city seems as dismal as Africa
Negotiated on foot, alone. Closing the door behind we enter
A sturdy and monotonous bubble, measured, hyper-holy.

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