Another Lunch Poem:
Clouds of America, it's time
to dissipate, to allow for gold.
Though blackbirds compliment
the grey with their tiny wingspan
and the wobbly green also.
Beauty adorns the corner
a backdrop to its honesty.
A voice accompanies a player piano
making blackletter easy on the eyes.
I understand every day isn't clear
or necessarily clean, but I envision
it a catastrophe to not be so.
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