The bottles of Torani syrup line your shelves like monks in their bunks,
and the window across the boulevard is almost smothered with tall green trees of all heights and varieties,
which are themselves obscured by an assortment of capital-lettered SUPERIOR auto-body shops,

and those are covered by cars in motion, square-backed and train-straight in their paths,
and those part-obscured by parked cars,
and those bisected by tables,
and those appended by people with drinks on barstool chairs,

and those cut off by the screen of my laptop,
and my hands on the keys. This place.
This place. I am getting increasingly less work done
the more I look at the landscape. This place, where all things
are several at once.


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