feet drifting down new streets.
At work, my anxiety is misread.
If I could paint out the molasses.
And
in the sorrow
of the streets in me
howling out with a meek and silent dissolving
taking gazes from working class men
and wondering
what's real
If I could get arms to take hold.
But,
I just can't figure out
the rubik's cube of it.
And I feel somehow
Invisible.
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