One Way James Ammirato
the vision house does not help you see— the bus does not clear your dishes— and the woman’s stroller has no baby, yet she pushes it onto the train. none of that house’s bricks can be used to throw through a window— no one has ever died at the arlington T stop (by musket at least) — please is a request, a nicety, a piece of proper etiquette— until it’s written in all caps, bolded, and red— the fools, they might as well have erased it— to an eye: lock = touch = make ///////////////////////////// close an eye— lock a window— cut a bolt— make for the door.
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