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by Jen Chapin

He awakes
And puts his pride into his pockets
And decides to walk into the day
He does his strange dances
For strangers he meets along the way
Sometimes it sets him free to be his own imagining
A thing no small town would allow
Sometimes it leaves him stumbling on the street
He takes an empty bow

I live in a city that has no past
I live in a city where dreams fade fast
I live in an over ripe fruit
Where passions call out and then fall mute
Where sweetness struggles to be heard
Where shame can die without a word

Purpose paints her face for her race
Through the smoke of hidden holes and greasy fires
She has no breath to waste on the taste
Of knowing other people's desires
It seems there is no fear in her
A conspirator with the arrogance of brick and steel
Too many people to wonder about
She's off to make another deal

I live in a city where stories are cast
I live in a city where illusion grows vast
I live on an island so bold
It's fiction captures us in its hold
It's voices somehow sing the same song
With furtive words we sing along
And there's a man whose face is a pile of brittle wood
And his smile just needs one spark
To set it aflame

And there's a woman who walks with her boy bandaged up
Her face is a cup holding all his hurts
And I see a puffed up man in a three-piece pout
Not a doubt in his mind that the city is his
But what if all these faces were to welcome us in?
What a place this would be what a place to live in


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