Good afternoon Party People, I am writing a poem on my lunch break


The are two pigeons perched on a steel archway.
They are dreaming of a freshly-swept plaza
littered with islands of old fries and small
continents of stale churro crumbs, while an
algorithmic radio programmed by no one, plays on
for no one, at least until the wiring meets
a winter it can't withstand.

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