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Sean Cole – Old Typewriter

Sean Cole
Old Typewriter

Work is over.  Think I’ll go and shoot a drummer.
Today I bring some young musician’s summer
to a close.  What a bummer, for him, can you imagine?
“Hey kid!  Ba-dum ch.”  He charts,
and dies.  Thunder leaves his heart.  Sticks part
and click the corner of Mass Ave and Boylston.
2 streets rolling on the Charles.  Someone screams
“One more number!”  No.  No more number.

Murder’s the same as getting a hummer for some,
’cept no come.  Not me.  Not in this for the counseling.
Shoot because I mean to be a beaut.  My aim
is lumber shyly in its shed, resting
breeze.  A hard humus burdens this gun,
needs out.  Death rattles the detached cage
door that bones the car.
2 dimes fly into a dumb roll.  Taps plays,

evening slips into its bonus chamber.
The sun drops like a bead to the hammer
primed below the layer.  And the street becomes a concert, every
person squats aside the flank of his own killed rhythm phenom.
You know it’s a long day when the world doubles,
when a shadow world stuffed with one fat coroner eclipses
the stars.  Crumbs of wood float up and count each other
in the air, “a one, and another.”

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