Back To It, Then

Unfinished
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Strangest days are the ones laid
Out like this: steps go somewhere and everybody's in a hurry
To take them. Me, I'm dragged down to a halt
With the current split around me: a boiling hydraulic
Of all the things people do and say.
I catch myself with my ear bent to the sussurus
Of some conversation that doesn't belong to me,
And it sounds like stolen silk ripped down from the line.
It must be better; they seem
So content.

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