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Kids play in the street
on a Sunday at eight
No school in the morning
they all can sleep late

But your life will go on
without holiday
without any respite
from a regular day

The clock still gets punched
at a quarter to nine
some bourbon in your coffee
and march down the line

She’s gone and you’re haunted
by that which remains
nothing of consequence
nothing to claim

Perhaps there is time
to salvage some shred
of hope in your happiness,
some color but red

The blood on the wall
the pillow, the sheet
dripping down to the floor
puddled brilliant at your feet

The neighborhood’s gone quiet
as you stand in the dark
No one to call comfort
The pain remains stark