Troy Mira

By this time tomorrow

I’ll have found my way to yesterday

Just as today was yesterday’s tomorrow

Seems a waste, doesn’t it

Seven ages

To come full circle

Brings to mind an image

Of a small grain mill

In the village square

With an ass lashed to it

Head down

Making dust

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If I have them tarted up

Lathered, rinsed, scrubbed, peeled, creamed, tenderized

Smelling of tangerines and youthful exuberance

The air of disaffected petulance and slum appeal perfected

Working the seedier corners of your mind

Like carnival barkers versed in product placement

Will you pay attention then?

Will my words have meaning then?

Or will they all go missing

By morning?

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