cars
stacked high
blanketed in green
cobblestone cracks filled
with dead cigarettes
plastic chairs beaten by sun
brick camouflaged in vine
Bush spray painted
on a stop sign
dirty men in flannel and wool
share a sidewalk with youth
in band t-shirts carrying books
the occasional suit
walks by me
and must say
“there’s another Seattle cliche”
my smoke
my over priced cup
won’t amount to much
still I sit in a roped off patio
taking notes slow on life
wondering if happiness comes
from a dog
2.5
a job and a wife
secretly fantasizing
about fucking my secretary
not thinking
about my poor bank statement
or empty fridge
or lack of interview clothes
or the hard working men in trucks
who wonder how I can sip my coffee
in the middle of a weekday
with a full pack of butts
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