three of them sitting around a sawhorse
drinking millers and talking about subwoofers
their plywood table trims a counted moon
warm beers are the language equivalent
when channeling the ghosts of old cubicles,
talking about a bowling conference,
eyes missing, mouths with or without words
the low cash count is getting them down
i had notes to the point but the burnt bulb
of a clamp light fell down stairs like
piano keys and i lost them in the clamor
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