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Adrian Slonaker

Unseasonably cool evening,
unusually quiet street –
for downtown,
just the snarling of a dog inside a vehicle
and the summertime chatter of a couple of schoolgirls.
So many closed doors and darkened windows-
hours of rest or hours of bankruptcy?
I know the blocks.
Do they know me?
I walked them in far different days
when I was a far different me.
Names on storefronts,
some memory-joggers,
others new invaders,
Yet the faces ring no bells.
When an angel looks homeward,
sometimes he confronts nothing but
a strange concoction of the terribly familiar and terribly strange,
with the aftertaste of egg rolls
and displacement.