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T.H. travel-log. Luca Paci

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High street,  clock tower shadowed

by  a thick plane tree dripping its leaves

on tarmark & traffic. Shoppers pour out

the supermarket like hunter-gatherers

in search of meaning  (new life? new religion

to cling on before the end?)

The end is close

a poster barks on platform one.

The man with the big issue

smokes in perfect balance with his mood.

Down the leaves creek and shriek

a novel hope for his new soles.

They come and go like laborious termites.

Is he listening  to the deafening

sound of that plane ahead?

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2 responses »

  1. icecollision

    This poem is wicked good. “The man with the big issues smokes in perfect balance with his mood.”

    Reply

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