The day was hot and moist, like a dog's breath.
The smoke clung close to the ground,
blue and pungent, under a dream of swinging leaves.
The banshee voices echoed down the clapboard corridor,
and deep into the ocean of August sky.
The day is cold and brittle, like broken glass.
The traffic stirs the weathered plush.
The stitched faces are ever smiling but never happy,
amid the faded polyester flowers
and colored ribbons fluttering there.
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