Crosswalk for Poets

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Should we paint the town red? Or any other color that means more. The boring streets. Sweeping the rain. Dressed with cars.                     Or shall we walk away? No, not on a Thursday. Bleak? Yes, tortured by our treading laces And ornamented with our soles.                    We will dip our fingers, Into the street, Like it was made of wine. And throw a spectrum over it, As we cross on a red light.

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