the warplanes are not blotting out
the cafe jazz, here at Blackbird
I'm certain, where the buildings crumble
there is no music but jets above
bombs below, and roadside explosions
I am fortunate, as so many find themselves
even the tiny sufferings and shame
that mark my charmed existence
are small enough to be immeasurable
in the jetsam and sputum of history coughing
washed down the gullet of time
inconsequence and grace
make me more fat and comfortable
than I have right to be
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