You Wouldn’t Understand Our Fun

It’s often solemn
here, at the bottom.
Moldy brick, insects,
fire escapes, door slams
mark time,
make sense.
It’s godless and damp,
often rotten
here, at the bottom.
And eyeballs ache
and backs and mornings.
But there are glimpses;
ripe instances of
My image in the lit pane,
a strain of real music.

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