Rush Hour

City hardens.
Model trees erected on
the overpass,
And another one, stiff but dead,
next to me, grafted in a condom
of cement
reeking of piss.
Christ, I crave the florid and
rotten grass scent of
wafting in beautiful rivulets
at 5 AM, and the odours of men
who have opened their barn
doors for us to breathe the
wormed breath of roosters and their
feral three-legged cats
mating to the death.

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