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Those were better times for everyone
I knew. The saxophone screamed

from oiled fingers saying something
I can’t remember. Snow came in the winter

and left when it was no longer wanted.
Even the rain had a job, which was to remind

us that nothing dies as slow as the sadness
of teenagers. I’m lying: I never understood

what the saxophone was saying, the reason
our hair was so afraid of our heads, the true

purpose of shoulder pads. Bodies piled up
under the streets. I kept my windows up

to avoid the smell and hung those little green
trees on the rear view mirrors just like everyone.

They weren’t all dead yet, was the secret
I was afraid to learn. Hands extended, parched

throats begging for help while the microphones
laughed. Someday, they’ll carve a dollar sign

into a mountain. At least it will be honest.

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