Good morning, Mr. Sandler

fragments of dreams are stuck to your skin,
crumbles of death on the fingertips.
rain doesn’t wash, a sentimental tosh.

and it reeks, reeks in your memories.
mouse traps, holes of Swiss cheese,
sex scenes, a girl in flipflops.

the reflection of the clouds
flushed to the drain,
pregnant skies are leaking the rain,
one more stop in the crowded train.

baseball, page six, stifled perfume,
a flirt or small-talk, elevator up, elevator down.
“I am sorry, I stepped on your foot.”

Shoot!
cellphone in one hand, the coffee cup in the other.
No Zero Coke, sloth.

dark stairway, dusty carpet, cement walls.
indifferent look, close circuit cam, an eyeball.
security officer is watching porn on the cellphone.

“Good morning, Mr. Sandler, have a nice day.”

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