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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