Loopless

 

Penny for your thoughts, a dollar for the parking meter.

 

Fortune smiles crooked at us, still winsome but irony-touched.

 

Nickel, (plug), to give about the quarter of town

 

we’re ambulating, high-tracked, 

 

sideways, dime bag to blame.

 

We’re on the fifty-cent foot tour

 

of places we may have left the car.

 

 

 

 

r h p   h o m e

 

 

T o d d   M e r c e r


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