Faces in the Rain
Like ghostly apparitions
smudged by the teardrop rain
they walk, without umbrella, against
the elements, the figurines of white and orange,
against themselves, at any point,
ready to throw it all down
and start all over again
They stain my back windows
fog my mirrors
little marching soldiers
all leg and hips
hooded like monks
ready for the slaughter
I pass them and wave
they walk faster
racing
against the puddles
they find themselves lost in
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