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P O E T R Y
by Joshua Robbins
|Wash n' Shop
I'd like to say the scruffy anthem that a boy's rolled-up
cuffs & scuffed sneakers sing to a waning Saturday moon
& his midnight T.P.'ing of the neighborhood are, together,
a kind of code-breaking, another tally slash in the column
Unsuccessful Ciphers of the Outer World,
but as the Wash n' Shop's double-stacked front loaders
tumble & smack in long rows, neither I, nor his mother
getting high in the ladies', could care less about
the signified, or how vent steam, sweet-smelling
& inconsequential, drifts upwards & becomes the sky.
So, tonight, let there be breakage. Let the strip mall bar
next door empty out & let the half-tanked stumble home.
Let not one phrase of the turnpike's hum correspond.