Apocalyptic poems, posted every m-f.

the singer

there’s a girl who settles in downriver of us,
and you might call her our neighbour

she sings Sinatra songs, to herself
and on trading days
and in exchange for meals

she says its her gift to the community –
songs stolen from that one record that
survived her mother’s collection

everyone tolerates the singing and the presupposing
because it’s nice to feel like there are people out there
who don’t need to lift a finger

you see, we have a certain nostalgia for waste.


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