Same, tomorrow?


Like birds, my hands flew from 7th story 
Windows welcoming ills of city air.
Watching the pavement blend with the faces of pedestrians.
Again, tomorrow I’ll open windows 
To stumble through a different scent,same scenery. 
Phone rings. Mother’s voice slides 
The conscience from its compartment.
Hands return blistered with blood same color as my skin.

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