The grey storm skies of fall
Remind me of that man
Shuffling through the discount store
Counting out his pennies for a half jug of milk.
And the bloated girl whose tumor-ravaged brain
Finally gave up the fight.
And then again the harvest.
Rotten pumpkins and gourds twisting
In the tired soil.
And the moldy apples you pick off the ground
To feed me for my dinner.
The grey suffocates like a too-thick blanket
That never covers my feet.
And so it goes.
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