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  • Summer day,
    pavement sizzles,
    blacktop oozes back to primal tar,
    air so thick it chafes,
    nothing fits.
    Outside, cars,
    like impatient sharks,
    cruise for parking spaces.

    Along the climate control line
    Security patrols
    in rumpled shirts,
    pants too tight
    shoes that pinch
    Night sticks slap their thighs
    Side arms buckled down.
    Serious consumers only.
    All others need not apply.

    Against the wall,
    in no-man’s land
    a woman,
    wearing all she owns,
    holds out a tattered cup,
    watches shadows pass her by.

    Is it any wonder, tempers fray and
    discontent is the default state of mind?
    Oh, sure as certain, some one else has got what’s yours.
    We learn early
    and often,
    to the swift, goes the glory and the chance to define the story.
    Got to grab, snatch it, before it’s passes to another.

    So it’s gone and goes,
    until, the glare from broken glass and scattered dreams
    fragments logic, releasing cause from effect’s constraint,
    amid the welling chaos, every smart phone wielding I-reporter
    captures story shards bright as lightening bugs in peanut butter jars,
    holds aloft their failing flickers,
    Modern Merlins with their most unholy grails,
    riding the networked mobius strip astride their painted ponies.
    Oh, what would good Don Quixote say?
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