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Matt McBride

 

 

City of Hangover Sundays

 

You hear whistling from underground.

Mannequins, left outside
fuzz with mold.

The tombstones are soap.
In-between, inflatable sheep graze

as a copse of toddlers in pajamas
pick the sheep up and put them down.

Their laughter is the wind.

On the sidewalk,
glass snails leave smears of Vaseline.

You're not certain
if you're lonely.


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