A Season for Living

Why is it
I can’t afford
a season living here?

The lights that gleam
elude me
                    the last rays
          ricochet
off glass windows
in the traffic of debris
outside my faded window.

Bright men and women ​
                 briskly return
        underneath
the heavy jaundiced heat,
one leg stubbornly
pushing  just before the day breaks

No one finds the end
And in breathing
they live in loops
of what is next and old
old and next

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