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poet

Jon Davis

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by this poet

poem
Silence in this suburb of cars and dogs, of roar 
and rumble, sudden thump at the railroad crossing.
But this morning before 5 am, there's only the wash, 
the waterfall of cars on I-25, which sounds in my ear 
almost like the sound of blood in my arteries—
that inner traffic.  In the pre-dawn silence
a bright
poem
We who wear clean socks and shoes are tired
of your barefoot complaining, your dusty footprints
on our just-cleaned rugs. Tired, too of your endless ploys—
the feigned amputations, the imaginary children
you huddle with outside the malls, your rags and bottles,
the inconvenient positions you assume. Though we