by Joseph Veronneau

The art academy, with its doors posted wide
hold the key to what we call democracy.
The street held a few known meth labs
that sounded off over the course of the year,
readying for the pomp and circumstance
of slick, wing-tipped talkers.
Hands shaken before circles
are filled in,
crows circled over us,
cashmere coats and two-party
sensibilities overcast
a crowded block of pitched signs.
Cigars and thick, cheeky smiles
bounced and flashed
when each new guest entered.
This smells like
any other downtown block,
lost in a haze of smoke and speech
touted and praised
like a concerto of commanders
echoed and swollen, exhausts
spit out and inhaled
against our will.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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