thirteen times

in the obviously oblivious
obsolescence of oblivion
he busks for change
a one man band
humming elevator versions
of unwritten pop songs decomposed in the brains splattered against
the mildewed tiles
of the last bathroom
hidden in the darkness
beneath the landing
for the orange line train

thirteen times
the candleflame flickers
in the rancid stagnation
the still world
exactly one step left
of real world anxiety
where metrognomes
pantomime manic dissidence
in the cracks of the mirror
he slides uncaring
his harmonica in a satchel
with the unstrung ukulele
of artistic aesthetic

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