Living men’s cars
are parked in
dead men’s spaces

outside the headquarters
of god alone knows what
it is today or will be tomorrow

when the ticker-tape parade
snakes along under office windows
that once were tempered glass
but now are toothless maws.

Someone’s breaking
office windows,

letting out the stank of desperation,
cheap perfume and underarm deodorant

barely masking the stale sweat
of that fast fuck of
god alone knows who (or what) it was

giggling and squirming under his desk.


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