from behind closed doors,
from the vents in the concrete walls.
acid reflux feeling in the sternum
when you wander through their jet streams.
can't find a corner free of the noxious gas
expelled from bloated bellies,
tainted tongues, bruised from blathering
nonsense
filtered by some into soggy strains of truth
tempers, like prairie fires, flare suddenly
in a charged yet eerily quiet kind of way.
too much for me, poor pisces.
want the cool water
in a silver bucket, thrown
on our backs.
cat like consequences
befitting our feline den.
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