They stood like church spires, signalling the hour in fan fare
Shot glass vision
They squatted into the dome of her dresses; hems ran like terracotta geometry lacing all the loose ends.
Threw the neck
Uncrossed her legs and eyes
Surrendered
Raised her hands like minarets and belted calls of prayer
But one after the other they quivered and dismounted
Resuming the gagging bite of palm over begging lips
Her gaze glazed
They kept coming, stretched sick thoughts like cord bridges over what was once remote and then the traffic came,
Five lanes,
One way,
Flowed like magma,
Smelt like sulphur,
Stiff
Determined
They gather on certain Monday mornings,
Some times Tuesdays
I can’t remember the faces
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