Curbs and Cul de Sacs

This gorged emptiness
the porchside purge
the rut and resistance
i watch you force
on these pumpkin grins

the faster they waste
a bracing strafe winter.
It turns and turns, a record reel
The feeling of worms monthing
stall and straw
Its the way a coin tastes

The streetlights rush in
and the rinds are kicked to the curb

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