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CCCIV

March 11, 2014

Across the street they stand beneath a light
with hands on hips, their clothes impeccable,
their stance unchanging. In the darkness, night
surrounding, don’t they seem alive? When full
of light, their clothing glowing, don’t they seem
to spill out to the parking lot to spread
their cheer? If only I could speak to them—
but no, they’re mannequins, and have no heads.

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