when everything glimmers
a plastic-induced sheen
and stores manufacture smells of newness,
and belief, and blinded status quo,
enough that it makes your eyes tighten;
when everyone struggles to assert
the efficacy of clean carpets
and space between houses,
what, then, fuels the the drive to live?
fresh, dewy grass,
a shield of clouds against the sun,
or just high-octane gasoline?



bronnie


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