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Angst
hunger leads to warmth, a passing car
flings an empty bag, a spilling
soft drink, the late hour capturing satisfaction
and the loud howls of teens lost in lust
in backseats, their teeth still stung with
onions, mustard, the tart
taste of cola.
morning can touch midnight, can
recall the passion from a shared wet straw, and
old men can sniff at pleasant dooms, try to hear
the breathless gasps of youth, their own ancient lips smacking
empty icicles, no passion there, no promises
of delight.
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