The faces of those we meet
Show us a bit of the place
Where we find ourselves
This day now
Replete with weather
Drawn down from
Gravity or born of
Days without sun, or happiness
Or maybe, sweet
Ripened apples and
Juicy gossip of yore,
Lay rotting on the floor
We come together
Much as before
But never more
Than when we were
At last without incident
Or consequence
Of mostly sheer
Coincidence
We share the road
You going that way
Me this
Passing on the left.
(You say,
"Stupid Americans,"
I say,
"Mean people everywhere.")
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