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  • The car wash, it is empty,
    And not ‘cause cars are clean.
    Their dust-encrusted carcasses
    Have long since lost their sheen.

    They all are the same color now,
    The color of rock salt.
    Dejectedly their drivers drive
    Not one of them John Galt.

    They have not heard the forecast
    But they already know.
    They don't look up but brace themselves,
    Anticipating snow.

    It was so cold this morning,
    We ate breakfast after lunch,
    Alongside pissed-off neighbors
    Each one poised to throw a punch

    I heard a lovely songbird,
    I scowled at its song,
    My focus is all I have left
    To last the winter long.

    March came in like a raptor
    It won't go out like a lamb
    And neither too will April
    May and June seem like a scam.

    If, by and by, by mid-July,
    Teeth chatter in my mouth,
    I plan to pack, and won't come back.
    Forever flying south.
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