Noon
The whistle in the distance is rain,
held back with a force to be reckoned
with,
passing through heavy when the sky goes
dark,
the last bit of power in me does not go
out
but makes a way to shade the past with
height,
makes a way for a chilled lunch in the
mind
sharp with a tongue loose as change
the hour is set like a bowling pin and
the minutes
are rolling a great big ball of hope
into the sounds
from the radio and scoring at the ready
the town comes alive for this hour is
ours
unpaid but practised to perfection.
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