Down at the Greyhound depot,

The casualties lie etherized

         like stars set against the sky.

         A blank look in their eyes,

         As the buses go by.


The yellow smoke that cats the ground;

The noxious fumes and car exhaust,

         mingle with the cheap perfume.

         And in the temple of the lost,

         there is a sense of doom.


And the girls circle round and round.

They click and cluck about a stroke of luck

         that could befall that special guy

         who knows when fate has struck,

         and refuses to ask why.



Summer 1984

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