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We Eat What The World Delivers

You think he’s half-baked, & I say
no, fried, & both of us so boiled

we don’t remember why we
brought him up in the first place.

Was it the savor of gin, bleared
romance drifting in the bleached air

& the tonic’s fizzing as
it fetched the brim of the glass?

A schemer, a scoundrel, a shill
or a saint–who could agree when

spent limes pale like citrus coins
with no value on the plate.



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