Burdened Air
by John Zedolik

Human feces sweeten the air
through which I ride

though the odor does not whet
the appetite or slow the legs

to linger even as I ponder
the condition of the human

and its habitations in this public place
of oak, bleeding hearts, and hydrangeas

whose slight scents now have sunk
under the man-made product of desperation

that lurks on this Sunday where the idle
and housed promenade along the river

and under sunshine, out of range
of this funk some cannot outrun.


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