Coffee blood,
caffeinated veins,
another day in
paradise.
In the hall goes the suction
and blow
and scrape, scrape, scrape
of painters at their profession.
Nine a.m. and we are all in it
together man.
Sleep has left us -
replaced by scrape.
I sleepily smile in solidarity
and snark.
There are worse things in life
than a heart broken and
solitude.
The painters' scraping smooths our walls
and somehow too the bumps in my road.
Dance immediately.
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