It's relaxing to shuffle
on once sulfurous-sored feet
my back no longer in pain
straighter than this hard oak door.
I'm in feed-mode. I see through
cataracted lenses. I rend with
false teeth I thought to replace
and defy indigestion
that schoolboy-taunted me in
every bathroom. Through my ears
they all scream like bad children
pocketing slingshots, holes in windows,
repenting to their parents
once they're caught with cigarettes
for lack of all hope. The sounds
trying to push back delude
themselves to thinking I'm dumb,
though I have more brains than them
stuffed like pens in shirt pocket
PHD's lost in jacket
to be discovered when food's scarce,
that they'll make a break for it
cleverly spin circles round
our circles. No. Not these kids.
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