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This bus has bad breath. Poor thing.
We are, after all, sitting in its esophagus.
Give it mints from Philadelphia or Denver.
Is it Spanish flew, which blew in. Babies?
We are, after all, sitting in its esophagus.
Give it mints from Philadelphia or Denver.
Is it Spanish flew, which blew in. Babies?
Is it flu from dishabille disabled bile?
The Christmas decorations linger, fewer now,
replaced by red Valentines, except if the door
itself is red. Perhaps, then, hidden hearts.
The Christmas decorations linger, fewer now,
replaced by red Valentines, except if the door
itself is red. Perhaps, then, hidden hearts.
Pretty things, it is pleasant in Pleasantville.
Flat, girls travel in threes making shapes of
Christmas trees by leaning in, laughing.
A pack of Archies form a running team
On the street surface. All is pleasant
in Pleasantville. On the surface.
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Footnote
A POEM IN TRANSIT
is the copyrighted Property of LCSoL.
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