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Over your
shoulder
Over your shoulder
sits a waiting car,
blinking yellow. yellow.
yellow. * * * *
Flashers do their job so well.
Nancy, the meter maid, the
mother of two,
who slept with George and lived to
tell the tale in a tell-all book
that was never published and so told
nothing at all, is writing a ticket,
her fifteenth of the hour. She'd wanted
to be a dancer.
NO STANDING. EMERGENCY VEHICLES
ONLY.
A fire-engine-red fire engine
ambles by.
There is no spotted dog and I'm glad I'm not standing.
You smile and say look over
your shoulder:
It's the President of the United States. And
he's buying tangerines. By the bushel.
Well, I say, How about that.
Over your shoulder is the ocean.
And it is beautiful. Just like
you.
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